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    ForgingTheDarksword

    Forging The Darksword

    Prologue

    The black, greasy column of smoke wafted away on the chill air  as
the  ashes  of  the  victim  drifted  down  to  fall  upon  those  who
complacently believed they had just saved a soul. Here and there, amid
the smoldering ruins, tongues  of flame licked  out, greedy for  more.
Finding nothing but charred remains, the fire crackled and died. Smoke
rolled into  the sky,  casting  a shroud  over the  wretched  village,
drawing a pall over the sun.

    The crowd dispersed, many making the sign of the cross,  combining
this with gestures to ward off the  evil eye or any other curses  that
might be  lingering in  the  tainted air.  Muttered remarks  of  "foul
witch"  were  a  dark  accompaniment  to  the  priest's  sanctimonious
pleadings with someone-it may have been God, though the priest  didn't
sound at all  certain about it-to  forgive the sins  of this  tortured
being and provide it with eternal rest.

    Two figures huddled together in a rat-infested alleyway. Both were
dressed exactly alike, in black robes with hoods pulled low over their
heads. One  leaned upon  a carved  wooden staff,  highly polished  and
decorated with nine strange symbols.  This was obviously the older  of
the two, for he was  stooped and the hand  upon the staff was  gnarled
and wrinkled, though its grip was firm.

    His companion  was  obviously  much younger;  he  stood  tall  and
straight, though his shoulders slumped  and he seemed bowed down  with
grief. He held a cloth across  his nose and mouth, ostensibly to  keep
away the sweet stench  of burning flesh, but  in reality to hide  from
the old man the fact that he wept.

    The two  had remained  unobserved by  the crowd  because they  had
chosen to  remain  unobserved.  Silently  they  stood,  silently  they
watched. Now, as the last  ashes of one they  had loved blew down  the
cracked stone streets, the old man let out a slow breath.

    "Is that all  you can  do?" cried  the other,  nearly choked  with
grief. "Sigh?  You should  have let  me-" He  made violent,  intricate
patterns with his hand in the air. "You should have let me-"

    The old man laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

    "No. That  would have  only made  matters worse  for us.  She  was
strong. She could have saved herself  but she kept our secret,  though
they broke and burned her body. Would you take that triumph away  from
her?"

    "Why have they  done this?  Why are they  doing this  to us?"  the
young man cried wretchedly, his long, fine-boned hands endeavoring  to
wipe away the tracks  of his sorrow.  "We have done  no evil! We  have
only tried to help..."

    The old man's face grew stern, his voice crackled like the  flames
as he spoke. "What they do not understand, they fear. What they  fear,
they destroy. So it has ever been with their kind." Sighing again,  he
shook his hooded  head. "But  I see  it growing  worse. A  new age  is
coming, an age in  which there will  be no place for  us. One by  one,
they will seek us out and drag us from our homes and feed us to  their
envious  fires.  They  will  hunt  down  and  destroy  our  creations,
slaughter our familiars-"

    "So we  stand here  and sigh  about it  and go  to our  deaths  in
silence," the young man interrupted bitterly.

    "No!"

    The old man's grip  tightened on his arm.  "No!" he repeated in  a
voice that sent  a thrill of  hope and  a shiver of  fear through  the
younger man, who turned to stare at  him. "No, we do not! I have  been
thinking long on this, weighing  the dangers, the alternatives. Now  I
am satisfied. Now I see that we have no choice. We must leave."

    "Leave?" repeated  the younger  man in  soft, dazed  tones.  "But,
where will we go?  There is no  place that is  safe, for our  brethren
tell us that this persecution exists wherever the sun rises..."

    As if his words had conjured  it up, the sun appeared from  behind
the gray  clouds. But  the charred  remains of  the corpse  gave  more
warmth than did  the shriveled orb  that shone pale  and bleak in  the
winter sky.

    Staring at it, the old man smiled grimly.

    "Wherever the sun rises? Yes, that is true."

    "Then-"

    "There are other  suns, my  boy," said the  old man  thoughtfully,
staring into the  heavens and  caressing the carven  symbols upon  his
staff. "Other suns..."

    BOOK ONE

    * The Prophecy * 1  Catalyst of Merilon * 2  The Gift of Life *  3
Saryon * 4 The  Chamber of The  Ninth Mystery * 5  The Chamber of  the
Bishop * 6 Merilon * 7  Anja * 8 The Borderlands  * 9 The Ritual *  10
The Game  * 11  Spring's Bitter  Harvest  * 12  Escape *  13  Saryon's
Punishment

    The Prophecy When a Bishop of the Realm of Thimhallan receives  in
solemn ceremony the miter  that marks his  standing as spiritual  head
and heart of the world, his first  official act as Bishop is one  that
is secret, private, unseen by the eyes even of those he calls Ruler.

    Acting upon orders  from the Duuk-tsarith,  the Bishop retires  to
his chambers and activates the enchantments that seal him off from the
world. Then he admits one person-a warlock, Head of the dread Order of
Duuk-tsarith, who brings His Holiness a box, of the purest gold,  made
by the alchemists. This  box is surrounded by  such spells of  warding
and protection that only  the warlock himself may  open it and  remove
that which the box contains. This is nothing more than a single  sheet
of old parchment covered with handwriting. Carefully, reverently,  the
warlock places this bit of paper before the mystified Bishop.

    Lifting the sheet of parchment,  the Bishop examines the  document
carefully. It is old,  dating back centuries. There  are spots on  the
paper, as though tears  have stained it,  and the handwriting,  though
obviously that of a trained scribe, is practically unreadable.

    As the Bishop endeavors to  decipher this missive, his  expression
changes from  one of  mystification to  a look  of shock  and  horror.
Invariably, he looks up at the  Head of the Order of Duuk-tsarith,  as
if asking the man whether he knows what the letter contains and if  it
is true. The Head of the Order simply nods, since these people  rarely
speak. Ascertaining  that  the  Bishop  has  absorbed  the  document's
contents, the  warlock makes  a motion  and the  parchment leaves  the
Bishop's hand and returns to the box. The Duuk-tsarith then  withdraws
from  the  Bishop's  presence,  leaving   behind  a  man  shaken   and
distraught, the words on the parchment burning in his mind.

    Forgive me, those of you who are reading this at some future date.
My hand is unsteady-the Almin help me!  I wonder if I will ever  cease
to tremble! No, I  know I will  not while I  still picture so  clearly
that tragic event it is my duty to record and while I still hear those
words ring in mv ears.

    Be it known then  that in the dark  days following the Iron  Wars,
when the land is in chaos and  many predict the end of our world,  the
Bishop of the Realm  undertook to see into  the future, that we  might
calm the  people. For  one year,  he prepared  himself to  endure  the
casting of this spell. Our beloved  Bishop prayed daily to the  Almin.
He listened to  the proper  music recommended by  the Theldara,  music
that would attune the spiritual with  the physical. He ate the  proper
foods, abstaining from  all strong  spirits. His eyes  saw only  those
colors soothing to the  mind, he breathed  the prescribed incense  and
perfumes. The month prior  to the Prophecy,  he fasted, drinking  only
water, purging his body of all unwelcome influences. During that time,
he spent  his days  and nights  in  a small  cell, never  speaking  to
anyone, never spoken to.

    The day of  the Prophecy came.  Ah! How my  hand shakes! I  cannot
contin- [A blot  upon the paper,  the writing trails  off the edge.  ]
There, forgive me. I am master of myself once more. Our beloved Bishop
descended to the holy Well in the heart of the Font. He knelt upon the
marble rim of the Well  that is, so we are  taught, the source of  the
magic within our world. The highest ranking catalysts in the land  had
returned to this holy ground, to  assist the theurgist in the  casting
of this spell. They stood around the Well, their hands linked so  that
Life flowed through them.

    Standing beside our Bishop was  the old theurgist-one of the  last
in this  world, we  fear, since  their kind  sacrificed themselves  in
their attempts to put  an end to the  terrible war. Drawing Life  from
the catalysts around him, the Spirit Shaper worked his powerful magic,
calling upon the Almin to give our Bishop knowledge of the future.  To
this spell, our Bishop added his prayers, and though his body was weak
from fasting, his voice was strong and earnest.

    And the Almin appeared.

    We, all of us, felt His presence, and we fell to our knees in fear
and awe, unable to look at His terrible beauty. Staring into the Well,
his face  rapt  and spellbound  and  under powerful  enchantment,  our
Bishop began to speak  in a voice  not his own. What  he said was  not
what we had  expected. These are  his words,  I pray that  I have  the
strength to write them.

    "There will be born to  the Royal House one  who is dead yet  will
live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he  will
hold in his hand the destruction of the world-"

    More there might have been, but at that moment our beloved  Bishop
suddenly gave a  great and  terrible cry-a cry  that will  echo in  my
heart as his words sound in  my ears-and, clasping his chest, he  fell
forward and lay on the lip of the Well, dead. The theurgist  collapsed
at his side as if struck by lightning, his limbs paralyzed, his  mouth
moving but making no sensible sound.

    And we knew that we were alone- The Almin had left us.

    When will this Prophecy come about?  What does it mean? We do  not
know, though our best minds are studying it word for word, even letter
by letter. The new Bishop thinks to undertake another Vision, but that
seems unlikely, as the theurgist lies at the point of death and he  is
surely the last of his kind left alive in this world.

    It has been decreed,  therefore, that I write  these words to  you
who may perchance see a future many of us do not believe will come  to
pass. This parchment will be given into the hands of the  Duuk-tsarith
to keep. It will be  known only to them,  who know everything, and  to
the Bishop of the Realm, revealed to him the day of his coronation.

    Let it then be kept  secret, lest the people  rise up in panic  to
destroy the Royal Households  and a reign of  terror descend upon  our
land like that which drove us from our ancient home.

    May the Almin be with you ... and with us all.

    The name penned below is illegible and not important.

    Since that  time, all  Bishops of  the Realm-and  there have  been
many-have read the Prophecy. All  have wondered fearfully if it  would
come to pass  within their  lifetime. All  have prayed  that it  would
not...

    ... and secretly planned what they would do if it did.

    1

    Catalyst of  Merilon  The  child  was Dead.  In  regard  to  that,
everyone was in agreement.

    All of the wizards, magi, and archmagi who floated in a shimmering
circle above the  marble floor, the  shade of which  had been  changed
hastily the previous  night from radiant  white to a  proper shade  of
mourning blue, were in agreement. All of the black-robed warlocks, who
maintained their attitude  of cool aloofness  and strict attention  to
duty as they  hovered at their  assigned posts appeared,  by the  even
more rigid posture  of their stance,  to be in  agreement. All of  the
thaumaturgists-catalysts-who stood humbly upon  the blue floor,  were,
by the somber hues of their robes, in agreement.

    A gentle rain,  whose tears slid  down the vaulting  glass of  the
crystal walls  of  the  magnificent  Cathedral  of  Merilon,  wept  in
agreement. The very air that stirred in the cathedral, tinged with the
soft aura of moonlight  conjured up by the  wizards to glow upon  this
solemn occasion,  agreed.  Even the  golden  and white  trees  of  the
Cathedral's park, whose graceful branches glistened in the pale, misty
light, agreed-or seemed to Saryon to  agree. He fancied he could  hear
their leaves  rustling  in low,  mournful  whispers... the  Prince  is
Dead... the Prince is Dead.

    The  Emperor  agreed.   (For  which   agreement,  Saryon   thought
caustically, Bishop Vanya  had undoubtedly  spent most  of last  night
upon his knees,  exhorting the Almin  to grant him  the smoothness  of
tongue of  the  serpent.) Hovering  in  the air  in  the nave  of  the
cathedral, the Emperor  floated beside the  ornate rosewood crib  that
stood in the center of  a marble dais, staring  at the baby, his  arms
folded across his chest to signify  rejection. His face stern and  set
in rigid lines,  the only outward  sign of his  grief was the  gradual
change of his  Golden Sun robes  to a shade  of Weeping Blue-the  same
color as the marble floor. The Emperor himself maintained the  stately
dignity expected of him even at this time, when his last chance for an
heir to the throne had died with this tiny baby; for Bishop Vanya  had
undertaken the Vision  and had foreseen  that there would  be no  more
issue for the Empress, whose health was fragile and precarious.

    Bishop Vanya stood upon the marble dais near the rosewood crib. He
did not float above it, as  did the Emperor. Standing himself,  Saryon
could not help but wonder  if Vanya felt the  envy that gnawed at  the
catalyst; envy of the magi, who, even on this solemn occasion,  seemed
to flaunt their power over the weak thaumaturgists, hovering over them
in the air.

    It is only the magi of Thimhallan who possess the gift of Life  in
such abundance that they are able to travel the world on the wings  of
the air. The  catalyst's Life force  is so low  that he must  conserve
every spark. Because he is forced to walk through this world and  this
life, the symbol of the catalyst's order is the shoe.

    The shoe: a symbol  of our pious self-sacrifice,  a symbol of  our
humility, reflected Saryon bitterly, wrenching his gaze from the  magi
and forcing his thoughts back to the ceremony. He saw Bishop Vanya bow
his mitered head in prayer to the Almin, and he saw, too, the  Emperor
keeping close watch on Bishop  Vanya, watching for his cues,  awaiting
instruction. At a subtle sign from  Vanya, the Emperor bowed his  head
as well, as did everyone in the court.

    Saryon glanced again at the magi hovering around and above him out
of the corner of his eye as he absently murmured the prayer. But  this
time the glance was a thoughtful  one. Yes, a humble symbol the  shoe-
Bishop Vanya  raised his  head  briskly. So  did the  Emperor.  Saryon
noticed that Vanya's relief showed markedly in his face. The fact that
the Emperor had agreed with him that the Prince was Dead made  matters
much easier.  Saryon's gaze  strayed to  the Empress.  There would  be
trouble here. The Bishop knew it, all the catalysts knew it,  everyone
in court knew it.  In a hastily convened  meeting among the  catalysts
last night, they had  all been warned how  to react. Saryon saw  Vanya
tense. Ostensibly, he was going over the formalities with the  Emperor
in the ritual proscribed by law.

    "... this  Lifeless body  will  be taken  to  the Font  where  the
Deathwatch will be performed..."

    But, in reality, Vanya was keeping a sharp eye on the Empress, and
Saryon saw the Bishop frown slightly. The color of the Empress's robe,
which should have been the most vivid, most beautiful shade of Weeping
Blue among all present, was slightly off-a sort of dull Ash Gray.  But
Vanya refrained from tactfully reminding her, as he would have at  any
other time,  to  change  it.  He  was  thankful-everyone  present  was
thankful-that the  woman was  apparently in  control of  herself  once
more. A powerful wizardess, one of the Albanara, her initial  reaction
of outrage and grief upon hearing the news that her child was Dead had
caused all the catalysts  to withdraw their conduits  to her for  fear
she  would  use  the  Life  force  they  granted  to  wreak   terrible
destruction upon the Palace.

    But the Emperor had talked to his beloved wife, and now even  she,
too, appeared to be in agreement. Her baby was Dead.

    In fact, the only  one present who was  not in agreement that  the
baby was  Dead appeared  to be  the baby  himself, who  was  screaming
frenziedly. But his cries  were lost, ascending as  they did into  the
vast, vaulting crystal heaven above him.

    Bishop Vanya, his gaze now fully on the Empress, launched into the
next part of the  ceremony rather more  hurriedly than was  absolutely
proper. Saryon knew why. The Bishop  feared the Empress might pick  up
the baby, whose body had been  washed and purified. Only Bishop  Vanya
himself was now permitted to touch him.

    But the  Empress, exhausted  by  the difficult  birth and  by  her
recent outburst, apparently had no energy left to defy Vanya's orders.
She lacked even the  energy to float  above the crib,  but sat on  the
floor beside it, shedding crystal  tears that shattered upon the  blue
marble. These sparkling tears were her sign of agreement.

    A muscle in Vanya's face twitched  when those tears began to  fall
with a musical sound  upon the floor. Saryon  even thought he saw  the
Bishop start to smile  in relief, but the  man recollected himself  in
time and carefully arranged his face to a more suitable expression  of
sorrow.

    When the  Bishop came  smoothly  to the  end  of the  ritual,  the
Emperor  nodded  once  with  grave  dignity,  repeating  the  ancient,
prescribed words,  whose  meaning no  one  remembered, with  only  the
slightest hint of a tremor in his voice.

    "The Prince  is Dead.  Dies ireae,  dies illa.  Solvet saeclum  in
favilla. Toeste David cum Sibylla."

    Then Vanya, who was growing  more relaxed as every passing  moment
brought the ceremony nearer completion,  turned to look around at  the
court to make certain that each was in his proper place, that each had
his or her robes changed to the  proper shade of blue to match his  or
her station.

    His gaze went from the Cardinal to the two Priests present to  the
three Deacons. And there his gaze stopped. Bishop Vanya frowned.

    Saryon trembled. The Bishop's  stern eye was on  him! What had  he
done? He had  no idea what  was wrong. Frantically  he looked  around,
hoping to catch some hint from those standing near him.

    "Too damn much green!" muttered Deacon Dulchase out of the  corner
of his mouth. Hastily Saryon glanced  down at his robes. Dulchase  was
right! Saryon was Turbulent Water in the midst of Weeping Skies!

    Feeling his face flush  until it was a  wonder he wasn't  dripping
blood upon the  floor as  the Empress  was dripping  tears, the  young
Deacon endeavored to change  the color of his  robe to match those  of
his brethren standing in  the Illustrious Circle  of the Court.  Since
changing the color of one's raiment requires only the smallest use  of
the Life  force, it  is magic  even the  weak catalysts  can  perform.
Saryon was thankful  for that.  It would have  been embarrassing  past
endurance if he had been forced to ask one of the magi to assist  him.
As it was, he was  so flustered that he barely  had it in him to  cast
this simple spell. His robe went  from Turbulent Water to Still  Pond,
hovered there  an agonizing  moment,  then finally-with  a  wrench-the
young Deacon achieved Weeping Skies.

    Vanya's eye remained  on him until  he got it  right. The eyes  of
everyone were on the poor young man  by now, even the Emperor. It  was
probably just as well that I was  not born a magus, Saryon thought  in
agony. I would have  vanished on the  spot. As it  was, he could  only
stand  there,  wilting  beneath  the  Bishop's  glare,  until,   still
frowning, Vanya  completed  his  inspection, his  gaze  continuing  on
around the semicircle to the nobles of the court.

    Satisfied, Vanya turned back to face the Emperor and embarked upon
the final  portion  of  the  ceremony for  the  Dead  Prince.  Saryon,
absorbed in his own shame, did not  attend to what was being said.  He
knew he would be  reprimanded. What would he  say in his own  defense?
That the baby's wailing distressed him?

    That, at least, was true enough. The child, only ten days old, was
lying in  his  crib,  crying  lustily-he  was  a  strong,  well-formed
child-for the love and attention and nourishment he had once  received
but would now receive no more. Saryon could offer this as his  excuse,
but he knew from past experience that Bishop Vanya's face would simply
attain a look of vast patience.

    "We cannot hear the cries of the Dead, only their echoes,"  Saryon
heard him say, as he had said last night.

    Perhaps that was true. But Saryon was well aware that those echoes
would haunt his sleep for a long time to come.

    He could tell the Bishop this,  which was the truth but only  part
of the truth, or he could  tell him the rest-I was distressed  because
the death of this child has ruined my life.

    It may  or may  not  be to  the  Bishop's credit,  Saryon  thought
gloomily, but  he  had a  feeling  that Vanya  would  be more  apt  to
sympathize with the second excuse for his failure in the matter of the
robe better than the first.

    Feeling a swift  jab in the  ribs-Dulchase's elbow-Saryon  quickly
lowered his  head again,  forcing the  ritual words  out from  between
clenched teeth. Desperately he sought to pull himself together, but it
was difficult. The  child's wailing  pierced his heart.  He longed  to
rush from the hall, and wished  devoutly that the ceremony would  come
to an end.

    Vanya's chanting voice fell silent.  Raising his head, Saryon  saw
the Bishop look  questioningly at  the Emperor,  who had  to give  his
permission to begin the Deathwatch. The  men stared at each other  for
an eternity, as  far as Saryon  was concerned. Then,  with a nod,  the
Emperor turned his back upon the  child and stood, his head bowed,  in
the ritual mourning  posture. Saryon  heaved such an  audible sigh  of
relief that Deacon Dulchase, looking  shocked, jabbed him in the  ribs
again.

    Saryon didn't care. The ceremony was almost over.

    His arms outstretched. Bishop Vanya took a step forward toward the
cradle. Hearing his robes rustle, the Empress looked up for the  first
time since the court had  assembled. Glancing around dazedly, she  saw
Vanya approaching the crib. Frantically her gaze went to her  husband,
and saw only the Emperor's back.

    "No!" With a heartbroken moan, she threw her arms over the cradle,
clutching it to  her breast.  It was a  pitiful gesture.  Even in  her
grief, she dared not defy the catalysts enough to touch her baby.

    "No! No!" she sobbed over and over.

    Bishop Vanya  glanced  at  the  Emperor  and  cleared  his  throat
significantly. The Emperor, who was  watching Vanya out of the  corner
of his eye, did not  have to turn. Slowly,  he nodded his head  again.
Vanya stepped forward  resolutely. Then, greatly  daring, he opened  a
conduit to the Empress,  trying to use  the flow of  Life to ease  her
unreasoning sorrow. It seemed to Saryon a foolish thing to do,  giving
additional power to this already powerful wizardess. But then  perhaps
Vanya knew what he was about. After all, he had known the Empress  for
thirty years, ever since she was a child.

    "Dear Evenue,"  Vanya  said,  abandoning her  formal  title.  "The
waiting time may be  long and painful. You  need rest to recover  your
health. Think of the loving husband, whose grief is equal to your  own
and yet must endure in addition your suffering as well. Grant me  that
I may take the child and perform the Deathwatch for all Thimhallan-"

    Raising her tear-streaked face, the  Empress stared at Vanya  with
brown eyes that now glittered as black as her hair. Suddenly she  drew
upon the power, sucking Life from the catalyst. The conduit of  magic,
normally not visible to the eye, flared brilliantly between the two of
them, arcing with  a blinding  white light as,  with a  motion of  her
hand, the Empress  sent the Bishop  flying backward five  feet in  the
air. No  one in  the court  dared move,  each staring  in awe  at  the
tremendous flow of power as Vanya landed heavily upon the weeping-blue
marble floor.

    Drawing the Life force flowing  through the Bishop's conduit,  the
weakened Empress gained  strength from  him that she  herself did  not
possess. Springing  into  the air,  the  wizardess hovered  above  her
child's cradle. Words of magic crackled. Spreading her hands wide, she
caused a  flaming globe  to  appear, encasing  herself and  the  child
safely within its fiery walls.

    "Never! Get out!" she shrieked, her voice searing like the heat of
the fire. "Get out, you bastard! I don't believe you, any of you!  Get
out! You lied! My baby  did not fail your Tests!  He is not Dead!  You
fear him! You fear he'll usurp your own precious power!"

    A murmur and a  rustle spread through  the Illustrious Circle,  no
one knowing where to look. It was  unseemly to stare at the Bishop  in
his undignified position. His  miter on the  floor, his tonsured  head
gleaming in  the moonlight,  the Bishop  had become  entangled in  his
ceremonial robes and was struggling to stand up. A few people  glanced
at the Empress, but it was painful to look upon her, and more  painful
still to hear her sacrilegious words.

    Saryon  took  refuge  in  staring  at  his  shoes,  wishing   most
desperately that he were a hundred miles from this pathetic scene.  It
was obvious that most  of those in the  court shared his feeling.  The
colors of  Weeping blue,  so carefully  gradated to  reflect rank  and
status, shifted with  each wearer's  nervousness so  that the  overall
effect was one of ripples passing over a calm and placid lake.

    With the Cardinal's help, the Bishop at last managed to stand  up.
Seeing his livid face, everyone in the court shrank back, many of  the
magi sinking weakly nearer the floor. Even the Emperor, who had turned
around, paled  visibly at  the sight  of the  Bishop's anger.  As  the
Cardinal replaced the miter  upon his head,  Vanya twitched his  robes
into place-the man had such control that they had not changed color in
the slightest degree-and,  gathering what strength  he had  remaining,
abruptly closed off the conduit to the Empress.

    The fiery globe vanished. The Empress had gained enough Life  from
the Bishop, however, that she continued to float above the child,  her
crystal tears falling upon the baby. As the tears hit the tiny,  naked
chest, they shattered, causing the  child to shriek louder,  screaming
in a hysterical  paroxysm of terror  and pain. Everyone  in the  court
could see blood running down the baby's skin.

    Vanya's lips tightened.  This had  gone too far.  The child  would
have to be washed and purified all over again. The Bishop cast another
look at the Emperor. This time,  Vanya's look was not questioning.  He
was commanding, and everyone in the court knew it.

    The Emperor's stern expression softened. Floating through the air,
he came to  rest beside his  wife and, reaching  out his hand,  gently
stroked her lovely, glistening hair. It was said among the members  of
the Royal Household that he doted  on this woman and would have  given
anything in  his vast  power to  please  her. But  the one  thing  she
wanted, apparently, he could not give her-a living child.

    "Bishop Vanya," the Emperor  said to the  catalyst, though he  did
not look at him directly, "take the child. Send us the sign when it is
ended."

    Relief flooded through the court.  Saryon could hear it sigh  upon
the air. Glancing around, he saw  that the color of nearly  everyone's
robes had shifted slightly again. Where there had once been a  perfect
blue spectrum  of  mourning,  now  the shades  and  hues  wobbled  and
wandered among sickly greens and woeful grays.

    Relief mingled with  anger was  obvious on the  Bishop's face,  as
well. Even he was too weakened to conceal it any longer. A trickle  of
sweat rolled down his  shaved head from beneath  the miter. Wiping  it
away, he exhaled deeply, then bowed to the Emperor.

    Moving much  more hurriedly  than  was proper  for such  a  solemn
occasion, all the while keeping his eyes on the Empress, who was still
hovering above him, the Bishop reached out and lifted the frantic baby
in his arms. Turning to a  warlock, a Marshal of the Enforcers,  Vanya
said in  a low,  husky voice,  "Through your  talent, take  me to  the
Font." Then he added, speaking to the Emperor. "I shall send the sign,
Your Majesty. Be waiting."

    The Emperor, his eyes still on  his frail wife, did not appear  to
hear. But the Bishop wasted no  more time. Beckoning to the  Cardinal,
the next highest ranking of the Order beneath himself, Vanya whispered
several words. The Cardinal bowed and, turning to the Marshal,  opened
a conduit to the warlock full force, granting him more than sufficient
Life to make the  journey through the Corridors  back to the  mountain
fastness of the Font, the center of the Church in Thimhallan.

    Even in  his  distraught  state  of  mind,  Saryon  found  himself
routinely making the tricky mathematical calculations for a journey of
such distance. Within moments,  he had it  completed, and he  realized
that  the  Cardinal  had  wasted  his  energy-a  grievous  sin   among
catalysts, for it leaves them weak and vulnerable and grants the  magi
extra energy that they  can store and use  again at will. But,  Saryon
supposed, it didn't matter this time. Though a skilled  mathematician,
it would take the Cardinal long moments of study to arrive at the same
answer that  Saryon  had  reached  in seconds.  Both  Saryon  and  the
Cardinal knew that those were long moments he didn't dare waste.

    Acting  quickly  upon  Vanya's  order,  the  warlock  entered  the
Corridor that opened up, a gaping  blue disk, before him. The  Bishop,
carrying his tiny burden,  followed. When all  three were inside,  the
disk elongated, compressed, and vanished.

    It was over. The Bishop and the baby were gone.

    The court began to function again. Members of the Royal  Household
floated up  to  the  Emperor  to offer  their  condolences  and  their
sympathy and to remind  him of their presence.  The Cardinal, who  had
given his all to the Marshal,  dropped over like a rock, sending  most
of the brethren of his Order running to his aid.

    One catalyst, however, did not  move. Saryon remained standing  in
place in the now-broken Circle, his plans and hopes and dreams falling
around him, shattering like the Empress's tears upon the  weeping-blue
floor. Lost in  his own  grief, Saryon  fancied he  could still  hear,
lingering upon the air, the faint  wail of the baby, and the  mournful
whispering of the trees.

    "The Prince is Dead."

    2

    The Gift of  Life The  wizard stood in  the doorway  of his  manor
house. A  plain,  serviceable dwelling,  it  was neither  opulent  nor
ostentatious, for this wizard, though of  noble birth, was yet of  low
rank. Though he could have afforded a glittering crystal palace,  this
would have been  considered unseemly for  one of his  station. He  was
content with his  life, however, and  now stood looking  out over  his
lands in the early morning with an air of calm satisfaction.

    At a sound behind him in the hall, he turned. "Hurry, Saryon,"  he
said with a smile for his little  boy, who was sprawled on the  floor,
struggling to put on his shoes. "Hurry, if you want to see the  Ariels
deliver the disks."

    With a final, desperate wrench, the child tugged his shoe over his
heel; then, leaping to  his feet, he ran  to his father. Catching  the
child up in his arms, the wizard spoke the words that summoned the air
to do his  bidding. Stepping  into the wind,  he was  lifted from  the
ground and floated over  the land, his  silken robes fluttering  about
him like the wings of a bright butterfly.

    The child,  one hand  clinging to  his father's  neck, opened  the
other to greet the dawn.

    "Teach me to  do this,  Father!" Saryon cried,  delighting in  the
rushing of  the spring  air past  his face.  "Tell me  the words  that
summon the wind."

    Saryon's father smiled and, shaking his head, solemnly tweaked one
of the little boy's  feet encased in its  leather prison, "No word  of
yours will ever  summon the wind,  my son," he  said, fondly  brushing
back the child's flaxen hair from the disappointed face. "Such is  not
your gift."

    "Maybe not now," Saryon said stubbornly as they drifted above  the
long rows of newly plowed ground, smelling the rich, dark fragrance of
wet earth. "But when I am older, like Janji-"

    But his father was  shaking his head again.  "No, child, not  even
when you are older."

    "But that's not  fair!" Saryon  cried. "Janji is  only a  servant,
like his father,  yet he can  tell the air  to take him  on its  back.
Why-"

    He stopped, catching  his father's gaze.  "It's because of  these,
isn't it!"  he said  suddenly. "Janji  doesn't wear  shoes. You  don't
either. Only me and Mother. Well,  I'll get rid of them!" Kicking  his
feet, he sent one of the shoes flying, to tumble down onto the  plowed
ground where  it would  lie until  a Field  Magus, happening  to  come
across it in her work, picked it  up and took it home as a  curiosity.
Saryon kicked at his other shoe, but his father's hand closed over the
little boy's feet.

    "My son, you are not strong enough in Life-"

    "I am, too, Father," Saryon insisted, interrupting. "Look! Look at
this!" With a wave  of his small hand,  he caused his own  knee-length
robe to change  from green  to a  vivid orange.  He was  about to  add
blotches of blue in order  to create a costume  of which he was  quite
fond, but one that his mother never  allowed him to wear at home.  His
father didn't mind, however, and so he was generally permitted to wear
it when  they were  alone together,  traveling about  the estate.  But
today the child  saw his father's  usually kind face  grow stern,  so,
with a sigh, he held his tongue and checked his impulse.

    "Saryon," said the wizard, "you are five years old. Within a year,
you will begin your studies as a catalyst. It is time you listened and
tried to understand what I am about to tell you. You have the Gift  of
Life. Thank  the  Almin!  Some  are born  without  it.  Therefore,  be
grateful for this gift and use it wisely, never wishing for more  than
you have been blessedly  allotted. That is a  path of dark and  bitter
despair, my son. To walk that path leads to madness or worse."

    "But if I  have the gift,  why can't I  do with it  what I  want?"
Saryon  asked,  his   lower  lip  trembling   at  both  his   father's
unaccustomed seriousness and the knowledge deep within the child  that
he knew the answer already but refused to accept it.

    "My son," his father replied with a sigh, "I am Albanara,  learned
in the arts of ruling those under my care, of running and  maintaining
my house, of seeing to it that my land brings forth its fruit and that
my animals  give their  gifts as  they were  born to  do. That  is  my
talent, given to me by  the Almin, and I use  it to find favor in  his
eyes."

    Dropping down from the  sky, the wizard came  to rest in a  wooded
glade at the edge of the  plowed land, shivering slightly as his  bare
feet touched the dew-damp grass.

    "Why are we stopping?" the child asked. "We're not there yet."

    "Because I  want  to  walk,"  the wizard  answered.  "There  is  a
stiffness in my muscles this morning that I need to work out." Setting
his son down, be started off, his robes trailing in the grass.

    Head bowed, Saryon trudged through the grass after his father, one
shoe off and  one shoe on,  forced to walk  with an awkward,  waddling
gait. Glancing back, the wizard saw his son lagging behind and, with a
wave of his hand, caused the child's remaining shoe to disappear.

    Looking down at  his bare foot  in momentary astonishment,  Saryon
laughed, enjoying the tickling sensation of the new grass.

    "Race me, Father!" he called and dashed ahead.

    Mindful of his  dignity, the wizard  hesitated, then shrugged  and
grinned. The wizard, was, after all,  only a young man himself,  being
in his late twenties. Gathering up his long robes in his hand, he  ran
after his son. Across  the glade they raced,  the child screeching  in
excitement as his father pretended to  be always on the verge of  (but
never quite)  catching up  with him.  Unaccustomed to  such  strenuous
exercise, the wizard was soon out  of breath, however, and was  forced
to bring the race to a halt.

    A jagged-edged  boulder jutted  up  out of  the earth  near  them.
Panting slightly, the wizard walked over to the boulder and,  touching
it gently with his hand, caused it to grow smooth and polished.  Then,
sinking down upon the newly shaped rock in relief, he motioned his son
to come to him. After catching his breath, he opened up the subject of
their previous conversation.

    "Do you see what I have  done, Saryon?" the wizard asked,  patting
the rock with his hand. "Do you see how I have shaped the stone  that,
before, was useless to us but is now a bench that we may sit upon?"

    Saryon nodded, his eyes fixed intently upon his father's face.

    "That much I can do with the  power of my magic. But, wouldn't  it
be wonderful, I ask myself sometimes, to be able to raise this boulder
up out of  the earth  and shape it  into... into..."  he paused,  then
waved his hand, "into a house, for us to live in... just you and I..."

    A shadow darkened  the wizard's  face as  he glanced  back in  the
direction of the house he had just left, the house where his wife  was
already up and busily attending to her ritual of morning prayer.

    "Why don't you, Father?" his child asked eagerly.

    The wizard's attention returned to his surroundings, and he smiled
again, though there was a bitterness in the smile that Saryon saw  but
did not understand.

    "What was I saying?" the wizard murmured, frowning. "Oh, yes." His
face cleared. "I  cannot shape  a house from  rock, my  son. Only  the
Pron-alban, the craft magi, possess that gift of the Almin's. Nor  can
I change lead to gold as can the Mon-alban, I must use what the  Almin
has given me..."

    "I  don't  think  much  of  the  Almin,  then,"  said  the   child
petulantly, poking at the  grass with a  toe, "If all  he gave me  was
these old shoes!"

    Saryon glanced up at his father out of the corner of his eye after
he spoke to see  the effect of such  a daring, blasphemous remark.  It
would have  had his  mother quivering  in white-faced  anger. But  the
wizard put his hand upon his lips as though to keep them from  smiling
against his will. Clasping his arm  around his son, he drew the  child
close.

    "The Almin  has given  you the  greatest gift  of all,  "said  the
wizard. "The gift of Life-transference. It is in your power, and yours
alone, to absorb the Life,  the magic, that is  in the ground and  the
air and all around us into your body and focus it and give it to me or
someone like me so that I may use its power to enhance my own. This is
the gift of the Almin to the catalyst. It is his gift to you."

    "I don't think it's a very good gift." Saryon pouted, squirming in
his father's embrace.

    Lifting him up, the wizard set the little boy upon his lap. Better
to explain things to the boy now and let him get the bitterness out of
his system  when they  were alone  together than  to upset  his  pious
mother.

    "It is  a  good enough  gift  that  it has  survived  through  the
centuries," the  wizard  answered  severely, "and  it  has  helped  us
survive the centuries, even the times in the old Dark World where  the
ancients lived, so we are told."

    "I know,"  said the  little  boy. Nestling  his head  against  his
father's chest, he recited  the lesson glibly, speaking  unconsciously
in the  clipped, cold,  precise voice  of his  mother. "Then  we  were
called   'familiars'    and    the    ancients   used    us    as    a
repos-reposi-repository"-he  stumbled   over   the  hard   word,   but
eventually  brought  it  out,  his   face  flushed  with  effort   and
triumph-"of their energy. This was done so that the fire of the  magic
did not  destroy their  bodies and  so that  their enemies  would  not
discover them. To  protect us,  they shaped  us into  the likeness  of
small animals,  and thus  we  worked together  to  keep magic  in  the
world."

    "Just so," said the wizard, stroking the child approvingly on  the
head. "You recite the catechism well, but do you understand it?"

    "Yes," said Saryon with  a sigh. "I understand,  I guess." But  he
frowned as he said it.

    Putting his finger beneath the  boy's chin, the wizard turned  the
solemn little face up to look into his.

    "You understand and you will be thankful to the Almin and work  to
please  him...  and  to  please  me?"  the  wizard  asked  softly.  He
hesitated, then continued. "For you will  please me, if you try to  be
happy in your  work, even though...  even though I  may not be  around
much to let you know that I am watching you and interested in you."

    "Yes, Father,"  said  the child,  sensing  a deep  sorrow  in  his
father's voice that he  longed to ease. "I  will be happy. I  promise.
But why won't you be here? Where are you going?"

    "I am not going  anywhere, at least not  for a little while,"  his
father said, smiling again  and ruffling the fair  hair. "In fact,  it
will be you that leaves me. But, that  will not be for a time yet,  so
do not worry. Look-" He pointed suddenly at four winged men, who could
be seen  flying over  the treetops,  bearing two  large, golden  disks
between them. The wizard stood up,  setting the little boy down  again
upon the boulder. "Now, stay here, Saryon. I must cast the enchantment
upon the seeds-"

    "I know what you're going to  do!" Saryon cried, standing up  upon
the rock so  that he  see better. The  winged men  flew closer,  their
golden disks  shining  like youthful  suns  bringing another  dawn  to
earth, "Let me help!" the boy  pleaded eagerly, reaching out his  hand
to his father. "Let me transfer the magic to you as Mother does."

    Again the shadow darkened the wizard's face but it vanished almost
instantly as he looked down upon  his small catalyst. "Very well,"  he
said, though he knew the boy was too young to perform the  complicated
task of sensing for the magic and  opening a conduit to him. It  would
take the child many years of study  to attain the art. Years in  which
his father would no longer have a  part of his own son's life.  Seeing
the small face looking up at  him eagerly, the wizard checked a  sigh.
Reaching out his  hand, he  took hold  of his  son's hand  in his  and
solemnly pretended to accept the Gift of Life.

    A person  born in  Thimhallan is  born  to his  or her  place  and
station in life, something not uncommon in a feudal society. A duke is
generally born a  duke, for example,  just as a  peasant is  generally
born a peasant.

    Thimhallan had its noble families, who had ruled for  generations.
It had its peasants. What made  Thimhallan unique was that certain  of
its people  had their  place and  station determined  for them-not  by
society -but by the inborn knowledge of one of the Mysteries of Life.

    There are Nine Mysteries. Eight of  them deal with Life or  Magic,
for, in the world of Thimhallan, Life is Magic. Everything that exists
in this land exists  either by the  will of the  Almin, who placed  it
here before  even  the ancients  arrived,  or has  since  been  either
"shaped, formed, summoned, or conjured," these being the four Laws  of
Nature. These Laws are controlled through at least one of eight of the
Mysteries: Time, Spirit, Air, Fire, Earth, Water, Shadow, and Life. Of
these Mysteries, only the  first five currently  survive in the  land.
Two-the Mysteries  of Time  and of  Spirit-were lost  during the  Iron
Wars. With  them  vanished  forever the  knowledge  possessed  by  the
ancients-the ability to divine  the future, the  ability to build  the
Corridors, and the ability  to communicate with  those who had  passed
from this life into the Beyond.

    As for the last Mystery, the  Ninth Mystery, it is practiced,  but
only by those who walk in darkness. Believed by most to have been  the
cause of the destructive Iron Wars, the Mystery was banished from  the
land. Its Sorcerers were sent  Beyond, their tools and deadly  engines
destroyed. The Ninth Mystery is the forbidden mystery. Known as Death,
its other name is Technology.

    When a child is born in Thimhallan, he or she is given a series of
tests to discover the particular mystery  in which that child is  most
skilled. This determines the child's future role in Life.

    The tests might indicate, for  example, that the child is  skilled
in the Mystery of Air. If he is from the lower castes, he will  become
one of  the Kan-Hanar,  whose duties  include the  maintenance of  the
Corridors that provide the swiftest means of travel within Thimhallan,
and the supervision of all commerce within and among the cities of the
land. The  child  of  a  noble family  with  this  skill  will  almost
certainly ascend to the rank of archmagus and will be made  Sif-Hanar,
whose vast responsibilities include controlling the weather. It is the
Sif-Hanar who make the air  in the cities balmy  and sweet one day  or
whiten the rooftops with a decorative snow the next. In the farmlands,
it is the duty of the Sif-Hanar to see that the rain falls and the sun
shines when  needed and  that they  neither fall  nor shine  when  not
needed.

    Those  born  with  the  Mystery  of  Fire  are  the  warriors   of
Thimhallan. Witches  and warlocks,  they become  DKarn-Duuk, with  the
power to call  up the  destructive forces of  war. They  are also  the
guardians of the people. The black-robed Duuk-tsarith, the  Enforcers,
are among this class.

    The Mystery  of  Earth  is  the  most  common  of  the  Mysteries,
accounting for the  majority of people  residing in Thimhallan.  Among
these are the lowest caste in the land-the Field Magi, those who  tend
the  crops.  Above  these  are  the  craftsmen,  divided  into  Guilds
depending on their varying  skills-the Quin-alban, the conjurers;  the
Pron-alban, magicians; the Mon-alban,  the alchemists. The highest  of
this class, wizards and wizardesses,  or the Albanara, have a  general
knowledge of all these skills and are those responsible for  governing
the populace.

    A child born  to the  Mystery of Water  is a  Druid. Sensitive  to
nature, these magi use their talents to nurture and protect all living
things. The Fihanish, or Field Druids, deal mainly with the growth and
prospering of plant and animal  life. The Druids most revered  however
are the Healers. The art of healing is a complex skill, utilizing  the
magus's own magic combined with the  magic of the patient to help  the
body heal itself. The Mannanish treat minor illnesses and injuries, as
well as practice midwifery.  The highest rank,  that which takes  most
power and  study,  is attained  by  the Theldari,  who  treat  serious
illnesses. Though it is believed that anciently they had the power  of
resurrection, the Theldari can no longer restore life to the dead.

    Those who practice the Mystery of Shadow are the Illusionists, the
artists of  Thimhallan.  These  are the  people  who  create  charming
phantasms and paint  pictures in  the air  with palettes  of rain  and
stardust.

    Finally, a child may be born  to the rarest of the Mysteries,  the
Mystery of  Life. The  thaumaturgist, or  catalyst, is  the dealer  in
magic, though he does not possess  it in great measure himself. It  is
the catalyst, as his name implies,  who takes the Life from the  earth
and the air, from fire and  water, and, by assimilating it within  his
own body, is able to  enhance it and transfer it  to the magi who  can
use it.

    And, of course, a child is sometimes born Dead.

    3

    Saryon Saryon was born a catalyst. He had no choice in the matter.
He came from a small province located outside the walls of the city of
Merilon. His father was a wizard of third-rank nobility. His mother, a
cousin of the Empress,  was a catalyst of  some consequence. She  left
the Church only when told that the Vision had been performed and  that
it was foreseen that  marriage to this  nobleman would produce  issue.
The catalyst trait would be passed on to an heir.

    Saryon's mother obeyed without  question, though the marriage  was
beneath her. His father obeyed without question as well. A nobleman of
his standing might or might not obey an order from the Emperor. But no
one, regardless of rank, refused a request of the catalysts.

    Saryon's mother performed  her marriage as  she performed all  her
religious duties.  When the  proper  time came,  she and  her  husband
traveled to the Groves of Healing where his seed was taken from him by
the Mannanish, the minor healers, and given to his wife. In due  time,
their child was born as the Vision had foreseen.

    Saryon was typical  in that he  began his training  at the age  of
six. He was  not typical in  that he  was allowed to  train under  the
tutelage of his mother, due to her high ranking within the Church.  On
the sixth  anniversary of  his birth,  the boy  was brought  into  his
mother's presence. From that moment  on, for the next fourteen  years,
he spent every day with  her in study and  in prayer. When Saryon  was
twenty, he  left his  mother's house  forever, traveling  through  the
Corridors to the most holy, most sacred place in Thimhallan-the Font.

    The history of the Font is  the history of Thimhallan. Many,  many
centuries before, in a time whose memories were crushed and  scattered
amid the chaos  of the  Iron Wars, a  persecuted people  fled to  this
world, voluntary exiles from their own. The magical journey had been a
terrible one. The great energies needed to perform such a feat drained
the last vestige of life from many of their number, who gave up  their
lives willingly so that their kind might survive and prosper in a land
they themselves would never see.

    They came  to this  place  because the  magic  in this  world  was
strong; so strong it drew them  to it-a lodestone leading them  safely
through time and space.  They stayed in this  place because the  world
was empty and alone.

    There were  drawbacks. Terrible  storms raged  over the  new,  raw
land. Its mountains spewed fire, its waters ran savage, its vegetation
was thick and  untamed. But,  as their  feet touched  the ground,  the
people felt the magic stirring and beating beneath them, like a living
heart. They could feel it, sense it; and they searched for its  source
enduring countless hardship and untold suffering on the way.

    At last they found  it, the source of  the magic-a mountain  whose
fire had burned out, leaving the  magic behind to glow like a  diamond
beneath the bright, unfamiliar sun.

    They called this mountain the Font and here it was, at the Well of
Life, that  the catalysts  established their  home and  the center  of
their world. At first there had  been only a few catacombs,  hurriedly
shaped and  hewn by  those eager  to escape  the perils  of the  world
outside. During the centuries, these few, crude tunnels had grown into
a maze of corridors and halls, of chambers and rooms, of kitchens  and
courtyards and terraced parks. A university, built on the side of  the
mountain, taught the young Albanara the skills they would need to rule
their lands and  their people.  Young Theldari came  to advance  their
healing arts, the  young Sif-Hanar  to study the  ways of  controlling
wind and clouds, all assisted by young novitiates among the catalysts.
The craft guilds had their centers of learning here as well. In  order
to provide for the students and their teachers, a small city sprang up
at the foot of the mountain.

    At the very top of the mountain was a grand cathedral, the  summit
of the mountain  peak itself  forming the vaulting  ceiling, the  view
from the windows so magnificent many wept for the sheer awe and beauty
of the sight.

    Few there were  on Thimhallan who  saw the view  from the  summit,
however. Once, the Font  had been open to  all, from Emperor to  house
magus. Following the Iron Wars, that policy had changed. Now only  the
catalysts themselves, plus those privileged  few who worked for  them,
were permitted within its holy  walls, and only the highest  officials
of the Church allowed to enter  the sacred chamber of the Well.  There
was a  city within  the mountain  as well  as without,  the  catalysts
having everything they needed to  live and continue their work  within
the Font. Many novitiates  walked through its doors  as young men  and
women and, if they left at all, it was only in whatever form the  dead
take as they journey Beyond.

    Saryon was one of  these novitiates, and he  might have lived  his
life out peacefully here as had countless others before him.

    But Saryon was different. In fact, he came to think of himself  as
cursed...

    The Theldara, one  of those few  outsiders chosen to  live in  the
Font, was working  outdoors in his  herb garden when  a venerable  old
raven hopped gravely down the pathway  between the neat rows of  young
seedlings and, with a croak, informed his master that the patient  had
arrived. With a word of gracious thanks to the bird-who, being so  old
that he was losing the feathers on top of his head, looked not  unlike
a catalyst himself-the Druid left  his sunny garden, returning to  the
cool, darkened, peaceful confines of the infirmary.

    "Sun arise.  Brother," the  Theldara  said, entering  the  Waiting
Chamber quietly, his brown robes brushing the stone floor with a soft,
whispering sound.

    "S-sun arise, Healer," stammered the  young man, starting. He  had
been staring moodily out a window and  had not heard the entry of  the
druid.

    "If you will walk this way  with me," continued the Theldara,  his
sharp, penetrating gaze taking in  every aspect of the young  catalyst
from the unnatural pallor of his complexion to the chewed  fingernails
to the  nervous preoccupation,  "we will  go to  my private  quarters,
which are more comfortable, for our little talk."

    The young man nodded and answered politely, but it was obvious  to
the Druid that he might have invited the catalyst to walk off a  cliff
and  received  the  same  vague  response.  They  passed  through  the
infirmary with its long  rows of beds, the  wood lovingly shaped  into
the image of cupped hands holding mattresses of sweet-smelling  leaves
and herbs, whose fragrant  combination promoted sleep and  relaxation.
Here and there, a few  patients rested, listening to prescribed  music
and concentrating their bodies' energies  on the healing process.  The
Theldara had  a word  for each  as he  passed, but  he did  not  stop,
leading his charge out of this area into another chamber, more  closed
off and private. In  a sunny room  whose walls were  made of glass,  a
room filled with  growing, living things,  the Druid sat  down upon  a
cushion of soft pine needles and invited his patient to do the same.

    The catalyst did  so, plopping down  upon it awkwardly.  He was  a
tall young man, stoop-shouldered, with hands and feet that seemed  too
big for his body. He was  carelessly dressed, his robes too short  for
his height. There were gray smudges of fatigue beneath the dull  eyes.
The Druid  noticed  all  this  without seeming  to  take  any  unusual
interest in his patient, chatting all  the time about the weather  and
inquiring if the catalyst would partake of a soothing tea.

    Having received a muttered acquiescence, the Theldara gestured and
a sphere of steaming liquid  obediently floated from the fire,  filled
two cups,  and  returned to  its  proper  place. The  Druid  took  one
cautious sip of his tea, then casually caused the cup to float down to
the table. The herbal concoction was intended to relax inhibitions and
encourage free talking. He watched  carefully as the young man  gulped
his down  thirstily,  seemingly unmindful  of  the liquid's  heat  and
probably never even tasting  it. Putting his cup  down, the young  man
stared out one of the large glass windows.

    "I am very pleased we have this chance to visit, Brother  Saryon,"
said the Druid, motioning  to the sphere to  fill the young man's  cup
again. "So often I see  you young people only  when you are sick.  You
are feeling well, are you not, Brother?"

    "I am fine.  Healer," said the  young man, still  staring out  the
window. "I came here only at the request of my Master."

    "Yes, you seem  well enough  in body," the  Theldara said  mildly,
"but our bodies are merely shells for our minds. If the mind  suffers,
it harms the body."

    "I am fine,"  Saryon repeated  somewhat impatiently.  "A touch  of
insomnia..."

    "But I'm told you  have been missing Evening  Prayer, that you  do
not take your daily exercise, and  you have been skipping meals."  The
Druid was silent a moment, watching with expert eyes the tea begin  to
take effect. The stooped shoulders  slumped, the eyelids drooped,  the
nervous hands slowly  settled into  the catalyst's lap.  "How old  are
you. Brother? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"

    "Twenty-five."

    The Druid raised an eyebrow. Saryon nodded. "I was admitted to the
Font at the age of twenty," he said by way of explanation, most  young
men and women entering when they are twenty-one.

    "And what was the reason for this?" the Theldara asked.

    "I'm  a  mathematical  genius,"   Saryon  answered  in  the   same
nonchalant tone he might  have used in  saying "I am  tall," or "I  am
male."

    "Indeed?" The  Druid  stroked his  long,  gray beard.  That  would
easily account for the young man's  early admittance to the Font.  The
transference of Life from the elements to the magi who will use it  is
a fine  science,  relying almost  completely  upon the  principles  of
mathematics.  Because  the  force  of   magic  thus  drawn  from   the
surrounding world is concentrated within  the catalyst, who will  then
focus  that  concentration  of  Life  upon  his  chosen  subject,  the
mathematical calculations for the amount of energy transferred must be
precise indeed, since the transference of magic weakens the  catalyst.
Only in the most dire emergencies, or  in times of war, is a  catalyst
permitted to suffuse a magus with Life.

    "Yes," said Saryon, relaxing under  the influence of the tea,  his
tall, awkward body sinking back into  the cushion. "I learned all  the
routine calculations as a  child. At the age  of twelve, I could  give
you the figures that  would lift a building  from its foundations  and
send it  flying through  the  air and,  in  the same  breath,  provide
calculations that would conjure up a royal gown for the Empress."

    "This is  remarkable,"  murmured  the  Druid,  staring  at  Saryon
intently through half-closed lids.

    The catalyst shrugged.  "So my  mother thought. To  me, it  wasn't
anything special. It was like a  game, the only real enjoyment I  ever
had as a  child," he added,  beginning to  pick at the  fabric of  the
cushion.

    "You studied with your mother? You didn't go to the schools?

    "No. She  is a  Priestess.  In line  for  Cardinal, but  then  she
married my father."

    "Political arrangement?"

    Saryon shook his head with a wry smile. "No. Because of me."

    "Ah, yes.  I  see." The  Druid  took  another small  sip  of  tea.
Marriages are  always  arranged in  Thimhallan  and are,  in  general,
controlled by the catalysts.  This is due to  the gift of the  Vision.
The only remnant left of the  once flourishing art of divination,  the
Vision allows the catalysts to foresee  if a union will produce  issue
and will  therefore  be a  wise  match. If  no  issue is  foreseen  as
forthcoming, the marriage is forbidden.

    Since catalysts can only breed catalysts, their marriages are even
more strictly governed than those of the magi and are arranged by  the
Church itself. Catalysts being so rare, having one in the household is
considered a  privilege.  In addition,  the  expense of  a  catalyst's
education and training is borne by the Church. His place in the  world
is established,  insuring  both  the  catalyst and  his  family  of  a
better-than-average livelihood.

    "Your mother is high in the Order. Your father must be a  powerful
noble-"

    "No." Saryon shook his head. "The marriage was beneath my  mother,
a fact she never let my father forget. She is a cousin of the  Empress
of Merilon and he was only a duke."

    "Your father? You speak of him in the past..."

    "He's dead,"  Saryon answered  without  emotion. "Died  about  ten
years ago, when I was fifteen.  A wasting illness. My mother did  what
she could. She called in the Healers, but she didn't try very hard  to
save him and he didn't try very hard to live."

    "Did this upset you?"

    "Not that much," Saryon muttered, poking his finger through a hole
he had worked in the  cushion. He shrugged. "I  hadn't seen him for  a
long time. When I was six, I began my studies with my mother and... my
father began spending more  and more time away  from home. He  enjoyed
the court life of  Merilon. Besides"-frowning, Saryon concentrated  on
widening the hole in the cushion, his fingers working busily-"I... had
other things... to think about."

    "At fifteen, one generally does," the Theldara said gently.  "Tell
me these thoughts. They must be dark ones, they lie like a cloud  over
the sun of your being."

    "I-I can't," Saryon mumbled, his face growing alternately  flushed
and pale.

    "Very well," the Druid said complacently, "We will-"

    "I didn't want to  be a catalyst!" Saryon  blurted. "I wanted  the
magic. It-it's the first clear thought I remember having, even when  I
was little."

    "That is nothing to be  ashamed of," the Theldara remarked.  "Many
of your Order experience the same jealousy of the magi."

    "Yes?" Saryon glanced up, looking hopeful at first. Then his  face
darkened. He began to  pluck pine needles  from the cushion,  pinching
them between  his  fingers. "Well,  that  isn't the  worst."  He  fell
silent, scowling.

    "What type of magus would you be?" asked the Druid, knowing  where
this was leading but preferring that it unfold naturally. He  beckoned
to the sphere to fill the catalyst's teacup again. "Albanara ..."

    "Oh, no!"  Saryon smiled  bitterly. "Nothing  that ambitious."  He
looked up again, staring out the window. "I think I'd be  Pron-alban-a
shaper of wood. I  love the feel of  wood, its smoothness, its  smell,
the twists and whorls of the grain." He sighed. "My mother said it  is
because I sense the Life within the wood and reverence it."

    "Very proper and correct," remarked the Druid, "Ah, but that's not
it, you see!" Saryon said, his  gaze going to the Theldara, his  smile
twisting. "I wanted to change the wood, Healer! Change it with my bare
hands! I  wanted to  join one  piece  of wood  with another  and  make
something new  of it!"  Sitting back,  he regarded  the Druid  smugly,
expecting a shocked, horrified reaction.

    In a  world where  the joining  together of  anything-lifeless  or
living-is considered  to  be  the  most  unforgivable  of  sins,  this
admission of Saryon's was a dreadful one, bordering on the Dark  Arts.
It is only the  Sorcerers, those who practice  the Ninth Mystery,  who
would think of  such a thing.  The Pron-alban, for  example, does  not
build a chair,  he shapes  it. Taking  the wood-a  solid, living  tree
trunk-he uses his magic to lovingly shape that wood into the beautiful
image he sees in  his mind. Thus  the chair is  just another stage  of
Life for the wood. Were the magi to cut and mutilate the wood, bend it
with his  bare  hands, and  force  those mutilated,  misshapen  pieces
together into the semblance of a chair-the very wood itself would  cry
out in agony and it must certainly soon die. Yet Saryon had  confessed
he wanted to  perform this  heinous act.  The young  man expected  the
Druid to turn  pale with  horror, perhaps even  order him  out of  his
home.

    The Theldara, however, simply  regarded the catalyst placidly,  as
if Saryon had stated he had a fondness for eating apples. "We all have
a very natural  curiosity about  such things," he  said calmly.  "What
else did you dream about in your youth? Joining wood? Is that all?"

    Saryon swallowed.  Looking  down at  the  cushion, he  jammed  his
finger through the fabric. "No." Sweating,  he put his hands over  his
face. "The Almin help me!" he cried brokenly.

    "My dear young  man, the Almin  is trying to  help, but first  you
must help yourself," the Druid said earnestly. "You dreamed of joining
with women, did you not?"

    Saryon raised his head, his face feverish. "How-how did you  know?
Did you see my mind-"

    "No, no." The Theldara raised his  hands, smiling. "I do not  have
the mind-draining  skills of  the Enforcers.  These dreams  are  quite
natural, Brother. Left over from the dark days of our existence,  they
serve to remind us of  our animal natures and how  we are bound up  in
the world. Didn't anyone ever discuss this with you?"

    The look on  Saryon's face was  so comical, being  one of  mingled
relief, shock, and naiveté, that the Druid was hard-pressed to keep  a
serious aspect, even as he inwardly cursed the cold, sterile, loveless
environment that must have fostered  such guilt within the young  man.
In a very few words, the Theldara set about explaining the matter.

    "It is speculated that in the  dark, shadowy land of our past,  we
magi were forced  to join the  flesh together to  produce issue as  do
animals. This gave us  no control over the  reproduction of our  kind,
and caused our blood to mingle with that of the Dead. Even years after
we came to this world, so it is believed, we still mated that way. But
then we learned that we had the power to take the seed of the man  and
transfer it-using  the Life  force-to woman.  Through this,  we  could
control the numbers of  our population as well  as raising the  people
above the bestial desires of the flesh. But that is not as easy as  it
sounds, the flesh being weak. I take it you outgrew these dreams," the
Theldara continued, "or perhaps you are still bothered-"

    "No," said Saryon hurriedly, in some confusion. "No, not  bothered
by them-I didn't outgrow, I  don't think. That is... Mathematics,"  he
said finally. "I-I discovered  that what had once  been... a game  was
my... salvation!"

    Sitting up, he looked at the Druid, his face brightening. "When  I
am in the world  of my studies, I  forget all about everything!  Don't
you see, Healer?  That is  why I miss  Evening Prayers.  I forget  all
about  eating,  the  exercise  period;  it's  all  a  waste  of  time!
Knowledge!  To   study  and   learn  and   create-new  theories,   new
calculations. I've cut  the magical  force needed to  form glass  from
rock in half! And  this is nothing-nothing-to compare  to some of  the
things I've been  planning! Why, I've  even discovered-" Saryon  broke
off abrupdy.

    "Discovered what?" asked the Druid casually.

    "Nothing you'd  be  interested  in," the  catalyst  said  shortly.
Staring down at the cushion, he suddenly noticed the hole he had  made
in it. Flushing, he began trying, without much success, to repair  the
damage he had done.

    "I may not understand the  mathematics," the Theldara. said,  "but
I'd be very interested to listen to you talk about it."

    "No.  It's  not  anything,  really."  Saryon  stood  up,  somewhat
unsteadily. "I'm sorry about the cushion..."

    "Easily repaired," the Druid said, rising to his feet and smiling,
though he was once more studying the young catalyst intently. "Perhaps
you will come back and we can discuss this new discovery of yours?"

    "Possibly. I...  I  don't  know.  Like I  said,  it  isn't  really
important. What is important in my life is the mathematics. It's  more
important to me  than anything  else! Don't  you see?  The gaining  of
knowledge... any type of knowledge! Even that which is-" Saryon  broke
off abruptly. "May I go now?" he asked. "Are you finished with me?"

    "I'm not 'finished' with you,  because I never 'started' with  you
in the first place," the  Theldara reproved gently. "You were  advised
to come here because your Master was concerned for your health. So  am
I. You are obviously overworking  yourself, Brother Saryon. That  fine
mind of yours depends upon its body. As I said before, if you  neglect
one, the other will suffer as well."

    "Yes," Saryon  murmured, ashamed  of his  outburst. "I  am  sorry,
Healer. Perhaps you are right."

    "I will see you at meals... and out in the exercise yard?"

    "Yes," the catalyst  answered, checking an  exasperated sigh;  and
turning, he started for the door.

    "And quit  spending all  your  hours in  the Library,"  the  Druid
continued, following. "There are other-"

    "The Library?" Saryon whirled about, his face deathly pale.  "What
did you mean, the Library?"

    The Theldara blinked, startled. "Why, nothing, Brother Saryon. You
mentioned studying. Naturally, I assumed  you must spend much of  your
time in the Library..."

    "Well, you assumed wrong! I haven't been there in a month!" Saryon
snapped vehemently. "A month, do you hear me?"

    "Why, yes..."

    "May the Almin be  with you," the catalyst  muttered. "No need  to
show me out. I know the way." Bowing awkwardly, he hurried through the
door of the Druid's  quarters, his too-short  robes flapped about  his
bony ankles as he walked rapidly through the infirmary and out the far
door.

    The Druid stared after the young man thoughtfully for long moments
after he had gone,  absently stroking the feathers  of the raven,  who
had flown in the window and perched on his shoulder.

    "What was that? " he asked the bird. "Did you say something?"

    The bird croaked a response, cleaning  its bill with its foot,  as
it, too, stared after the catalyst with its glittering black eyes.

    "Yes," answered the Theldara, "you are right, my friend. That soul
flies on very dark wings indeed."

    4

    The Chamber of The Ninth Mystery  The Master Librarian was not  on
duty when the incident occurred. It  was late at night, long past  the
hour of Rest. The only person on  duty was an elderly deacon known  as
the Undermaster.

    Actually, the term  Undermaster was  a misnomer,  since he  wasn't
really master of anything, either Under  or Over. He was, in  reality,
nothing more than a  caretaker, his main  responsibility in the  Inner
Library being to  discourage the  rats who, not  caring for  scholarly
pursuits, had taken to digesting  the books rather than the  knowledge
imprinted therein.

    The Undermaster was one of the  few in the Font permitted to  stay
up during the Resting Time. This  mattered little to him since he  had
the habit of nodding off at no particular time whatsoever anyway.  His
yellow-skinned bald head was, in fact,  just beginning to droop a  bit
closer to the pages of the tome  he told himself he was perusing  when
he heard a rustling, shuffling noise at the far end of the Library.

    The sound made him start and gave his heart an uncomfortable jolt.
Coughing nervously, he peered across the vast distance of the  Library
into the  shadows in  the hope  (or fear)  of seeing  what caused  the
sound. At  that  point he  remembered  the  rats, and  it  struck  the
Undermaster rather forcibly that  a rat large enough  to make a  sound
heard from that distance must be  an uncommonly large specimen of  the
species. It also struck him  that he would have  to cross a very  dark
section of the Library  in order to deal  with the miscreant.  Putting
these two thoughts together in his head, he decided, after a  moment's
profound consideration, that  he had heard  no sound at  all, but  had
only imagined it.

    Vastly comforted, he returned to  his reading, beginning with  the
same paragraph he  had been  beginning to read  for a  week and  which
never failed to put him to sleep about halfway through.

    This time was  no exception.  His nose was  actually touching  the
page when there came the rustling, shuffling sound again.

    This Deacon  had  seen  marvelous  things  in  his  youth,  having
witnessed a skirmish between the  kingdoms of Merilon and Zith-el.  He
had seen the skies rain fire, the trees sprout spears. He had seen the
Masters of War transform men  into centaurs, cats into lions,  lizards
into dragons, rats into slavering  monsters. The rat having now  grown
in  his  mind  proportionate  with  his  memories,  the  Deacon  rose,
trembling, from his chair and hastened for the door.

    Leaning his head out of the library, but not venturing out himself
(let it never be said that he abandoned his post!) the Deacon  started
to call  to the  Duuk-tsarith for  help.  But the  sight of  the  tall
black-robed and black-hooded figure standing still and motionless, its
hands clasped  before it,  gave him  pause, filling  him with  a  fear
almost equal to that of the mysterious noise. Perhaps it was  nothing.
Perhaps only a small rat...

    There it was again! And this time, a sound of a door shutting!

    "Enforcer!" hissed  the Deacon,  gesturing  with a  palsied  hand.
"Enforcer!"

    The hooded head turned his direction. The Deacon was aware of  two
glittering eyes and then, within the  drawing of a breath and  without
seeming to move at all,  the black-robed figure stood silently  before
him.

    Though the warlock did not speak, the Deacon heard, quite clearly,
a question in his mind. "I-I'm not cer-certain," stammered the  Deacon
in answer, "I-I heard a noise."

    The Duuk-tsarith inclined his head, as the Deacon could see by the
tip of  the black,  pointed hood  shivering slightly.  "It-it  sounded
rather large, not the noise,  that is. I mean, as  if it were made  by
something rather large and-and I thought I heard a door shut."

    A breath of warm, moist air whispered from the black hood.

    "Of course not!" The Deacon appeared shocked. "It is Resting Time.
No one  is allowed  in here.  I have  dispen-dispensation," he  added,
fumbling over the word in his nervousness.

    The hooded head turned to  look into the shadowy corridors  formed
by the crystalline shelves and their valuable contents.

    "Th-there," quavered the Deacon, pointing toward the very back  of
the Library. "I didn't see anything, I  only heard a sound, sort of  a
rustle, and then-then the door-"

    He paused, at another whisper of breath. "What's back there?  Just
a moment.  Let  me  think."  His  entire  bald  head  wrinkled  as  he
laboriously traversed the  Inner Library in  his mind. Eventually  his
halting mental Footsteps evidently led him to a startling realization,
for his eyes grew  wide, and he stared  at the Duuk-tsarith in  alarm.
"The Ninth Mystery!"

    The Enforcer's black hood snapped around.

    "The Chamber of the  Ninth Mystery!" The  Deacon wrung his  hands.
"The forbidden books! But the door is always sealed. How-What-"

    But he was talking to empty air. The warlock had vanished from his
sight.

    It took  a  moment  for  the Deacon,  in  his  rattled  state,  to
assimilate this occurrence.  Thinking at first  that the  Duuk-tsarith
might have fled in terror, the Deacon was about to join him when  more
rational thought  took  over. Of  course.  The Enforcer  had  gone  to
investigate.

    Visions of the giant rat loomed into the Deacon's view. Perhaps he
should stay here and keep watch on  the doorway. Then a vision of  the
Master Librarian  replaced the  giant  rat. With  a sigh,  the  Deacon
grasped the skirts of  his white flowing robes  in his hands, to  keep
them out of  the dust,  and hastened  through the  Library toward  the
forbidden room.

    Momentarily losing himself in a maze of crystal shelving, he heard
the sound of voices to his  right and somewhat ahead. This showed  him
the way, and  he scurried on,  arriving at the  door to the  forbidden
chamber just as another silent, black-robed, black-hooded Duuk-tsarith
materialized out of  the air.  The first Enforcer  having removed  the
seal from the door, the second entered immediately. The Deacon started
to follow, but  the Enforcer's unexpected  appearance had so  unnerved
him that he was forced to lean against the doorway for a few  moments,
his hand pressed over his palpitating heart.

    Then, feeling more himself  and not wanting to  miss the sight  of
two Duuk-tsarith battling  a giant rat,  the Deacon cautiously  peered
into the chamber. Although  its ancient shadows  had been driven  back
into their corners by the light of a candle, they seemed to be waiting
for any chance at  all to leap  out and once  more take possession  of
their sealed home. As  he stared into the  room, the giant rat  wafted
away into the  thin air  of the  Deacon's imagination,  replaced by  a
horror more real and profound.  He knew now that  he had to deal  with
something much darker, much more terrible.

    Someone had entered the forbidden  room. Someone was studying  its
dark and arcane secrets. Someone had  been seduced by the dread  power
of the Ninth Mystery.

    Blinking, trying  to  accustom his  eyes  to the  bright  beam  of
candlelight, the Deacon could not recognize, at first, the figure that
cowered in the grasp  of the two  dark warlocks. He  could see only  a
white robe with gray trim  like his own. A  Deacon of the Font,  then.
But who- A gaunt and miserable face looked up at him.

    "Brother Saryon!"

    5

    The Chamber  of the  Bishop Rising  ponderously to  his feet  from
performing the Ritual  of Dawn,  Bishop Vanya smoothed  his red  robes
and, walking to  his window, stared  out at the  rising sun, his  lips
pursed, his brow frowning.  As if aware of  this severe scrutiny,  the
sun peeped timidly over the ranges of the distant Vannheim  Mountains.
It even appeared to hesitate for a few seconds, teetering on the sharp
edges of the  snow-capped peaks, seemingly  ready to set  again in  an
instant if Bishop Vanya but spoke the word.

    The Bishop turned from  the window, however, thoughtfully  lifting
and placing around  his neck the  gold and silver  chain that was  the
mark of his office and matched the gold and silver trim upon his robe.
As if it had  been waiting for  this moment, the  sun sprang into  the
sky, flooding the  Bishop's room  with light. His  frown deepening  in
annoyance, Bishop Vanya stalked  back over to  the window: and  closed
the heavy velvet curtains.

    A soft, self-deprecating knock interrupted Vanya as he was sitting
down at his desk, preparatory to beginning the day's business.

    "Enter with the  Almin's blessing,"  he said in  a mild,  pleasant
voice, though he heaved a sigh immediately after, scowling to  himself
irritably at  the interruption  as his  glance went  to the  stack  of
missives, newly delivered by  the Ariels, that  sat upon the  polished
wood.

    The scowl was  gone by the  time the visitor  had appeared in  the
doorway. A rebellious  ray of  sunlight, managing to  sneak through  a
chink in the curtains, flashed off a  bit of silver trim on the  man's
white robes. Creeping into the room, his shoes making no noise at  all
on the thick carpet, the Cardinal bowed in greeting from the open door
then, shutting it carefully behind him, ventured to cross the floor.

    "Holiness,"  he  began,  licking  his  lips  nervously,  "a   most
regrettable incident-"

    "Sun arise, Cardinal." the  Bishop said from  where he had  seated
himself behind his massive desk.

    The Cardinal flushed. "I beg your pardon, Holiness," he  murmured,
bowing again. "Sun arise.  May the Almin's blessing  be with you  this
day."

    "And with you, Cardinal," said  the Bishop placidly, studying  the
missives the messengers had delivered into his hands last night.

    "Holiness, a most regrettable incident-"

    "We should  never allow  ourselves to  become so  involved in  the
affairs of the world that we  forget to invoke the Almin's  blessing,"
Vanya observed, apparently  absorbed in  reading one  of the  letters,
enveloped in the  Emperor's golden  aura, with an  abstracted air.  In
point  of  fact,  he  wasn't  reading  the  letter  at  all.   Another
"regrettable incident"! Damn! He'd just  been through one-a poor  fool
of a House Catalyst who'd gotten himself involved with the daughter of
a minor noble to the point where they had committed the heinous sin of
joining. The Order had  decreed execution by means  of the Turning.  A
most wise decision. Still, it had not been pleasant and had  disrupted
life at  the Font  for a  week. "You  will remember  that, won't  you,
Cardinal?"

    "Yes, of  course.  Holiness,"  faltered the  Cardinal,  his  flush
ascending from his face to his bald scalp. He paused.

    "Well?" The Bishop looked up. "A most regrettable incident?"

    "Yes, Holiness." The Cardinal rushed into the breach. "One of  the
young Deacons was  discovered in  the Great Library  last night  after
Resting Time-"

    Vanya frowned  irritably  and  waved  his  pudgy  hand.  "Let  his
punishment be determined by  one of the  Undermasters, Cardinal. I  do
not have time to fool with every transgression-"

    "I again  beg your  pardon, Holiness,"  interrupted the  Cardinal,
taking a step forward in his earnestness, "but this is not an ordinary
transgression."

    Vanya stared intently at the man's face and noticed, for the first
time, its  almost  frighteningly  serious and  solemn  intensity.  His
expression grave, the Bishop  laid the Emperor's  missive down on  the
desk and gave his minister his full attention. "Proceed, then."

    "Holiness, the  young  man was  found  in the  Inner  Library"-the
Cardinal hesitated, not because  he was being intentionally  dramatic,
but in order to brace himself for the reaction of his superior-"in the
Chamber of the Ninth Mystery."

    Bishop  Vanya  regarded  the  Cardinal  in  silence,   displeasure
darkening his face.

    "Who?" His voice grated.

    "Deacon Saryon."

    The frown  deepened.  "Saryon... Saryon,"  he  muttered,  absently
tapping the fingers  of one  pudgy hand upon  the desk  in a  crawling
motion, a  habit he  had. The  Cardinal, having  seen it  before,  was
always vividly reminded of a spider making its slow, steady way across
the black wood. Involuntarily, he edged a step backward as he  prodded
his superior's memory.

    "Saryon. The mathematical prodigy, Holiness."

    "Ah, yes!"  The bristling  brows eased  slightly, the  displeasure
receded somewhat. "Saryon." He was  thoughtful a moment, then  frowned
again. "How long was he there?"

    "Not long. Holiness,"  the Cardinal hastened  to assure him.  "The
Duuk-tsarith were alerted almost  immediately by the Undermaster,  who
heard a sound in  the far section of  the Library. Consequently,  they
were able to apprehend the young man within minutes of his entry."

    The Bishop's face  cleared, he almost  smiled. Noticing,  however,
that the Cardinal was observing this relaxation with a growing look of
shocked disapproval, Vanya  immediately assumed a  stern, severe  air.
"This must not go unpunished."

    "No, of course not, Holiness."

    "This Saryon must  be made  an example,  lest others  give way  to
temptation."

    "My thoughts exactly, Holiness."

    "Still," Vanya mused, sighing heavily  and rising to his feet,  "I
cannot but think that this is partially our fault, Cardinal."

    The  Cardinal's  eyes  widened,  "I  assure  you,  Holiness,"   he
protested stiffly, "that neither I nor any of our Masters ever so much
as-"

    "Oh, I don't mean that!"  Vanya said, waving his hand  negatingly.
"I recall hearing some reports that this young man was neglecting  his
health and  his prayers  for his  books. We  have obviously  let  this
Saryon get so wrapped up in his  studies that he has been lost to  the
world. He  very nearly  lost  his soul,  as  well," the  Bishop  added
solemnly, shaking his  head, "Ah,  Cardinal, we might  have been  held
accountable for that soul, but, thanks be to the Almin's mercy, we are
given a chance to save the young man."

    Receiving  a  reproachful  look  from  the  Bishop,  the  Cardinal
muttered, "All praise to  the Almin," but it  was obvious that he  did
not consider this one of the great blessings of his life.

    Turning his back upon his sulking minister, the Bishop walked over
to the window  and, drawing the  curtain aside with  one hand,  looked
outside as if to meditate  upon the fineness of  the day. But the  day
was far from his mind as evidenced by the fact that when the  Cardinal
did not speak further, Vanya-his  hand still upon the  curtain-glanced
at him out of the corner of his eye.

    "This young man's  soul is of  paramount importance, wouldn't  you
agree, Cardinal?"

    "Certainly, Holiness," said  the Cardinal, blinking  as he  stared
into the bright light, seeing it glint in the Bishop's eye.

    The Bishop returned to contemplating the morning.

    "It seems to  me, therefore,  that we  share some  blame for  this
young man's downfall through negligence on our part in permitting  him
to  wander  alone,  without  guidance  or  supervision."  Hearing   no
response, Vanya heaved a sigh and  tapped himself on the chest with  a
heavy hand. "I include myself in this blame, Cardinal."

    "Your Holiness is too good-"

    "Therefore, doesn't it follow that his punishment should fall upon
our shoulders? That we should be the example, not this young man,  for
it was we who failed him?"

    "I suppose..."

    Letting the curtain  fall suddenly,  plunging the  room into  cool
shadows once more, Vanya turned from the window to face his  minister,
who was once  again blinking, endeavoring  to adjust his  eyes to  the
dimness as he was endeavoring to  adjust his mind to his Bishop's  way
of thinking.

    "Publicly humiliating ourselves over this incident would, however,
do the Church a disservice, wouldn't you agree, Cardinal?"

    "Certainly, Holiness!" The Cardinal's shock increased. So did  his
confusion. "Such a thing is unimaginable..."

    With a  thoughtful,  pensive air,  the  Bishop clasped  his  hands
behind his back. "Does  it not go against  all our precepts,  however,
that we should allow another to suffer for our own transgressions?"

    The Cardinal,  now completely  lost, could  only murmur  something
noncommittal.

    "Therefore," continued the  Bishop in  a soft voice,  "I think  it
would be best for the Church itself and for the soul of this young man
if this incident were... forgotten."

    The Bishop  kept  his  gaze  upon  his  minister.  The  Cardinal's
expression was irresolute, then it hardened stubbornly. Vanya's  brows
came together again. The fingers of his hands curled around each other
in irritation, hidden, as they were, behind his back. The Cardinal was
generally a mild, unassuming man whose  best quality, as far as  Vanya
was concerned, was his slowness of thought. But this very slowness had
its drawback on occasions. The Cardinal's own life was measured out in
equal portions of black  and white; consequently,  he could never  see
beyond those  stark stripes  to  the subtle  shades  of gray.  If  his
minister had his  way, Vanya  reflected bitterly,  young Saryon  would
probably be sentenced to the Turning!

    Keeping his voice calm, Vanya  murmured in low tones,  emphasizing
the last four words, "I would  hate to give even the slightest  moment
of grief to Saryon's mother, especially  at a time when she is  deeply
concerned, as are we all, with the health of her cousin, the  Empress.
..."

    A muscle in the Cardinal's face twitched. He may have been slow of
thought, but he was no fool-another of his valuable qualities.

    "I understand," he said, bowing.

    "I thought  you would,"  Bishop Vanya  said dryly.  "Now"-crossing
once more  to  his desk  and  continuing briskly-"who  knows  of  this
unfortunate young man's transgression?"

    The Cardinal considered.  "The Undermaster  and the  Headmaster-we
had to inform him as a matter of course."

    "I suppose," Vanya  muttered, his  hand crawling  across the  desk
once more. "The Enforcers. Anyone else?"

    "No, Holiness." The Cardinal shook his head. "Fortunately, it  was
Resting Time-"

    "Yes." Vanya rubbed  his brow. "Very  well. The Duuk-tsarith  will
not be a problem. I can rely upon their discretion. Send the other two
to me, along with that wretched young man."

    "What will you do with him?"

    "I don't know,"  Vanya said softly,  lifting the Emperor's  letter
and staring at it with unseeing eyes. "I don't know."

    But, an hour  later, when  the Priest  who acted  as the  Bishop's
secretary entered the office to say that Deacon Saryon was here to see
him as requested, Vanya had made up his mind.

    Having only an  imperfect recollection of  Saryon, the Bishop  had
been endeavoring all morning to call  the young man's face to  memory.
This should  not  reflect  unfavorably  upon  the  Bishop's  power  of
observation, for it  was very acute.  It is rather  to his credit,  in
fact, that he was finally able  to extract the gaunt and serious  face
of the young mathematical  genuis from the faces  of the many  hundred
young men and women who came and went from the Font.

    Having fixed the face firmly in his mind, Vanya continued his work
for  another  half  hour  after  the  young  man's  arrival  had  been
announced. Let  the  poor fellow  suffer  a bit,  Vanya  told  himself
coolly, well  knowing  that the  most  exquisite form  of  torture  is
self-inflicted. Glancing at  the timeglass  upon his  desk, he  noted,
from the position of the tiny, magical sun that was rotating above the
sundial encased  in its  crystal prison,  that the  allotted time  had
elapsed. Lifting his hand, he caused a small-silver chime to  vibrate,
sounding a tone. Then, rising leisurely to his feet, the Bishop placed
the miter upon  his head  and smoothed out  his robes.  Moving to  the
center of the sumptuously  appointed room, he  stood waiting in  awful
majesty.

    The door opened. The  secretary appeared for  an instant, but  his
form was  swallowed  in blackness  as  the robed  and  hooded,  silent
Duuk-tsarith flowed past him, surrounding the stumbling figure of  the
young man  they  held between  them,  -surrounding him  like  his  own
private night.

    "You may leave us,"  the Bishop said to  the Enforcers, who  bowed
and vanished.  The door  shut noiselessly.  The Bishop  and his  young
transgressor were alone.

    Keeping his expression  carefully cold and  stern, Vanya eyed  the
young man curiously. He  noted to himself  with satisfaction that  his
recollection of Saryon's features had  been precise, though it took  a
few moments' study  to ascertain this,  so changed was  the face  that
presented itself to his view. Gaunt it had been, from hours of  study,
but now it was  cadaverous and touched with  a corpselike pallor.  The
eyes burned feverishly, and had  sunken into the high cheekbones.  The
tall spare frame  trembled, the overlarge  hands shook. Suffering  and
remorse and fear were visible in every line of the quivering body,  in
the red-rimmed eyes and the streaks that tracked down the face.

    Vanya permitted himself an inner smile.

    "Deacon Saryon." he began in a deep, sonorous voice. But before he
could say  anything further,  the wretched  young man  hurled  himself
across the room, and, falling to his knees before the startled Bishop,
grasped the hem of his robe and pressed it to his lips. Then,  wailing
something incoherent, Saryon burst into tears.

    Slightly discomfited, and seeing a large stain spreading over  the
hem of his  costly silken robe,  the Bishop frowned  and snatched  the
fabric out of the  young man's grasp. Saryon  did not move, but  knelt
there still, crouched over, his face in his hands, sobbing in misery.

    "Pull yourself together, Deacon!"  Vanya snapped, then added  more
kindly, "Come now, my boy. You have  made a mistake. It isn't the  end
of the world. You are young. Youth is a time of exploration." Reaching
down, he took hold of  Saryon's arm. "It is a  time our feet carry  us
down untrodden paths," he continued, almost dragging the young man  up
off the floor, "where, sometimes, we encounter darkness." Steering his
unsteady footsteps,  the  Bishop guided  Saryon  to a  chair,  talking
soothingly the while. "We have only to  look to the Almin for help  in
finding our  way back.  Here, that's  it. Now,  sit down.  You've  had
nothing to  eat or  drink all  night  or this  morning, I  presume?  I
thought not. Try this sherry. Really quite fine, from the vineyards of
Duke Algor."

    Bishop Vanya poured Saryon a glass of sherry which the young  man,
appalled at having his Bishop serve him, shrank away from accepting as
though it were poison.

    Noting the  young man's  confusion with  well-concealed  pleasure,
Vanya increased  his  kindness  to  him, placing  the  sherry  in  his
reluctant hand. Then,  removing the miter,  the Bishop sat  down in  a
soft, comfortable yet elegant chair opposite the young man. Pouring  a
glass of sherry for himself, he suspended it in the air near his mouth
and smoothed out his robes, making himself comfortable.

    Completely taken aback, Saryon could do nothing but stare at  this
great man, who now  looked more like  someone's overweight uncle  than
one of the mightiest powers in the land.

    "The Almin  be praised,"  said the  Bishop, causing  his glass  to
brush up against his lips, sipping a tiny bit of the excellent sherry.

    "The Almin be praised," mumbled Saryon reflexively, attempting  to
drink and nervously sloshing most of the sherry onto his robes.

    "Now, Brother Saryon," said  Bishop Vanya, assuming  the air of  a
father about to punish  a beloved child, "let  us drop formalities.  I
want to hear from your lips exactly what occurred."

    The young man blinked;  the glass hovering  before him wavered  as
his concentration on it slipped. Grabbing  it hastily, he set it  down
upon a nearby table  with a trembling  hand. "Holiness," murmured  the
wretched   Saryon    distractedly,   "my    crime...   is    wicked...
unforgivable..."

    "My son,"  said Vanya  in a  tone of  such infinite  patience  and
kindness that Saryon's eyes filled with tears again, "the Almim in his
wisdom knows  of  your crime  and,  in  his mercy,  he  forgives  you.
Compared to our  Father, I am  but a  poor mortal. But  I, too,  would
share his knowledge of the crime that I may share in its  forgiveness.
Explain to me what led you down this dark path."

    Poor Saryon was so completely overcome that for several moments he
could not speak. Vanya  waited, sipping his  sherry with that  outward
look of fatherly benevolence upon his face and the inner, unseen smile
of satisfaction. Finally, the  young Deacon began  to talk. His  words
came haltingly, limping at first, as his eyes sought the floor.  Then,
as he glanced up now  and then to see the  effect of what he  believed
were confessions of  a soul  so blackened and  corrupt as  to be  lost
forever and  saw only  compassion and  understanding, he  became  more
relaxed. His sins gushed forth in a torrent.

    "I don't  know  what  made  me do  it,  Holiness!"  he  cried  out
helplessly. "I used to be so happy, so content here."

    "I think you know. Now you must admit it to yourself," Vanya  said
placidly.

    Saryon hesitated. "Yes, perhaps I  do know. Forgive me,  Holiness,
but lately, I've felt-" He faltered, as though unwilling to speak.

    "Bored?" suggested Vanya.

    The young man flushed,  shaking his head.  "No. Yes. Perhaps.  The
duties are so simple..." He made  an impatient move with his hand.  "I
have learned all  the skills to  be a  catalyst to any  type of  magi.
Yes"-this in response to Vanya's skeptical look-"I'm not boasting. Not
only that, but I have developed new mathematical formulas to take  the
place of centuries-old,  traditional, clumsy  calculations. I  suppose
that should have satisfied  me, but it didn't.  It left me  hungrier."
Forgetting himself  in his  words, Saryon  talked faster  and  faster,
finally standing  up and  pacing about  the room,  gesturing with  his
hands. "I started working on formulas that could pave the way for  new
marvels, magics never  before dreamed  of by  man! In  my research,  I
delved deeper and deeper into the libraries of the Font. Finally, in a
remote part of  the Library, I  came across the  Chamber of the  Ninth
Mystery.

    "Can you imagine what I felt? No"-Saryon glanced at the Bishop  in
embarrassment-"how could you, who  are goodness personified? I  stared
at the runes carved above the doorway and a feeling crept over me much
akin to the feeling of the  Enchantment that we feel every morning  on
sensing the  magic.  Only  this  feeling was  not  one  of  light  and
fulfillment. It was as  if the darkness in  my soul deepened until  it
was sucking me  inside. I  hungered and thirsted  and literally  shook
with desire."

    "What did you do?"  asked Vanya, fascinated  in spite of  himself.
"Did you enter it then?"

    "No. I was too scared. I  stood before the chamber, staring at  it
for I don't know how long," Saryon sighed wearily. "It must have  been
hours, because I  was suddenly aware  of an  aching in my  legs and  a
feeling of dizziness. I sank into a chair then, terrified, and  looked
around. What if I had been  seen? Surely the forbidden thoughts I  was
thinking must be plain upon my face! But I was alone."

    Unconsciously suiting his actions to  his words, Saryon sank  back
into his chair. "Sitting there, in the Study Room near that  forbidden
chamber, I knew what it was to  be tempted by Evil." His head  towered
into his hands. "You see. Holiness, I knew, as surely as I sat in that
wooden chair, that I could enter  those forbidden doors! Oh, they  are
guarded and shielded by wards and runes"-he shrugged  impatiently-"but
they are such simple  spells of sealing that  anyone with any Life  in
him at all can easily undo them.  It's as if they are guarded in  this
way as a mere formality,  it being simply assumed  that no one in  his
right mind would even want to  be near the forbidden texts, let  alone
read them."

    The young man was silent then. His voice dropping, he spoke almost
to himself. "Perhaps I'm  not in my right  mind. It seems lately  that
everything I look at is distorted  and foggy, as though I'm seeing  it
through a gauze curtain." Glancing up at Vanya, he shook his head  and
continued, his voice tinged with bitterness.

    "I realized something else  in that instant,  Holiness. I had  not
discovered those books  by accident."  His fist clenched.  "No, I  had
been  searching  for  them,  deliberately  hunting  for  them  without
admitting it to myself. Entire passages of other books I had read came
clearly to my  mind as I  sat there, passages  that made reference  to
books that  I  was never  able  to find  and  assumed must  have  been
destroyed after the  Iron Wars. But,  when I found  that room, I  knew
differently. They were  in there.  They had to  be. I'd  known it  all
along.

    "What did I  do?" He  laughed hysterically, a  laugh that  cracked
into a sob. "I fled the Library as though pursued by phantoms! Running
back to my cell, I cast myself upon the bed and shivered in fear."

    "My son, you  should have talked  to someone," Vanya  remonstrated
gently. "Do you have so little faith in us?"

    Saryon shook  his  head, impatiently  wiping  away his  tears.  "I
almost did. The Theldara sent for me. But I was afraid." He sighed. "I
thought I could  manage by myself.  I tried to  drown this thirst  for
forbidden knowledge in my work. I sought to cleanse my soul in  prayer
and obedience to my duties. I never once missed Evening Ritual,  after
that. I took to exercising with  the others in the courtyard,  letting
myself get so exhausted that I couldn't think.

    "Above all, I avoided the Library. Yet not a moment  passed-waking
or sleeping-but that  I did not  think of that  room and the  treasure
which lay within.

    "I should  have  known then  that  I  was fast  losing  my  soul."
Saryon's words swept him on. "But the ache of my desires was too much.
I gave in. Last night, when  everyone else had retired to their  cells
for Resting Time, I slipped out and crept through the corridors  until
I came to the Library.  I didn't know the  old Deacon had been  posted
there to scare off rodents. I  don't suppose it would have stopped  me
had I known, so completely consumed was I by my torment.

    "As I had foreseen,  undoing the spells of  sealing was simple.  I
could have  cast such  magic as  a child.  For a  breathless moment  I
paused on the threshold, savoring the sweet ache of anticipation. Then
I entered that forbidden room, my  heart beating so that it came  near
bursting, my body drenched in sweat.

    "Have you ever been  in there?" Saryon looked  at the Bishop,  who
raised his eyebrows so alarmingly that the young man shrank back, "No,
no, I-I suppose not. The books are not assembled neatly or in any sort
of order. They're  just piled  up in stacks  as though  they had  been
hurriedly tossed inside by  hands eager to  cleanse themselves of  the
contamination. I picked  one up, the  first one I  came to."  Saryon's
hands twitched. "The elation and fulfillment I felt when I touched the
small book made me lose all sense of sight or sound or where I was  or
what I  was  doing. I  remember  only  holding it  and  thinking  what
wonderful mysteries were  about to  be revealed, and  that my  burning
pain would burst forth at last and free me from its torment."

    "And what was it like?" Bishop Vanya asked very softly.

    Saryon smiled wanly, "Dull. Boring. Turning the pages, I grew more
and more confused. I understood nothing of it, absolutely nothing!  It
was filled  with  crude drawings  of  strange and  senseless  devices,
containing oblique references to such  things as 'wheels' and  'gears'
and 'pulleys'." Sighing, Saryon's head drooped and he whispered in the
voice of  a disappointed  child, "It  didn't mention  one thing  about
mathematics."

    Vanya's inner  smile slipped  out  upon his  lips, but  it  didn't
matter, Saryon wasn't looking at him, the young man was staring at his
shoes.

    In a  lifeless  voice,  Saryon concluded.  "At  that  moment,  the
Enforcers came in  and... everything  went black.  I-I don't  remember
anything more until... until I found myself in my cell." Exhausted, he
sank back into the soft cushions of his chair, his head in his hands.

    "What did you do then?"

    "Took a bath." Looking up, Saryon saw Vanya's smile and,  assuming
it was at  this statement,  added by way  of explanation.  "I felt  so
filthy and dirty, I must have bathed twenty times last night."

    Bishop Vanya nodded  in understanding. "And,  no doubt, you  spent
the night imagining what your punishment might be."

    Saryon's head  dropped  again.  "Yes,  Holiness,  of  course,"  he
murmured.

    "Undoubtedly you  saw  yourself sentenced  to  become one  of  the
Watchers-turned to stone to stand forever on the Border of the land."

    "Yes, Holiness," Saryon spoke in  a low tone, barely audible.  "It
is nothing more than I deserve."

    "Ah, Brother Saryon, if  we were all  punished so drastically  for
seeking  knowledge,  this  would  be  a  land  of  stone   statues-and
deservedly so. The search for knowledge is not evil. You sought in the
wrong place, that is all. This  dreadful knowledge was banished for  a
reason. It very nearly destroyed our land. But you are not alone.  All
of us are  tempted by Evil  at one time  or another in  our lives.  We
understand. We do not condemn. You must trust us. You should have come
to me or one of the Masters for guidance."

    "Yes, Holiness. I am sorry."

    "As for your punishment, it has already been inflicted."

    Astonished, Saryon raised his head.

    Vanya smiled  gently,  his  voice  pleasant.  "My  son,  you  have
suffered far more this night than your mild crime merited. I would not
add to  it for  the  world. No,  in  fact, I  am  going to  offer  you
something to try in some  small way to make up  for what I fear is  my
share in your crime."

    "Holiness!" Saryons face  flushed, then went  white. "Your  share?
No! I am the one-"

    Vanya waved a deprecating hand. "No, no. I have not been open with
you young people. It is  obvious that you consider me  unapproachable.
The same  is true,  I begin  to see,  with the  other members  of  the
hierarchy. We will try to remedy that. But, for now, you need a change
of scenery to  brush these  dusty cobwebs from  your mind.  Therefore,
Deacon Saryon," said Bishop Vanya, "I  would like to take you with  me
to Merilon, to assist in the  Testing of the Royal Child, whose  birth
is expected to take place any day now. What do you say to that?"

    The young man could not respond, being literally struck dumb. This
was an honor for which the  members of the Order had been  politically
vying and shuffling for  months-ever since it  was announced that  the
Empress was  finally with  child. Being  absorbed in  his studies  and
consumed by his lust for  forbidden knowledge, Saryon had paid  little
attention to the talk. He was outside the circle of the popular  young
men and women  in the seminary  anyway and figured  he would not  have
been asked to go, even if he had wanted it.

    Seeing the young man's befuddlement,  and realizing that it  would
take him some moments to  work this out in  his mind, Vanya talked  of
the  beauties  of   the  royal  city   and  discussed  the   political
ramifications of  the birth  until Saryon  eventually was  able to  at
least mutter an intelligible remark or two. The Bishop understood what
the young man was thinking. Having expected to be cast out in darkness
and disgrace, he was suddenly  to be taken to  the city of beauty  and
delight and  presented  to  the  Royal Court.  His  fortune  would  be
made-not a doubt of it.

    A Royal  Child had  not been  born in  years, the  Empress  having
assumed the throne following the death of her brother, who himself was
childless. The celebrations the city  of Merilon was planning were  to
be spectacular  beyond belief.  As an  honored and  revered member  of
Bishop Vanya's staff, as well  as related-if distantly-to the  Empress
on his mother's  side, Saryon would  be feted and  entertained by  the
wealthiest nobles in  the land.  Undoubtedly, he would  be invited  by
some noble family  to be House  Catalyst-there were several  vacancies
that needed filling. He would be set for life.

    And, best of all,  said Bishop Vanya to  himself as he  graciously
walked the still-dazed  Saryon to  the door,  the young  man would  be
living in Merilon. He would not be  returning to the Font for a  long,
long time-if ever.

    6

    Merilon Enchanted city of dreams...  Merilon. Named for the  great
wizard who led  his people to  this distant world.  He looked upon  it
with eyes that had seen centuries pass, chose this place for his tomb,
and now lies bound by the Last Enchantment in the glade he loved.

    Merilon. Its  crystal cathedral  and  palaces sparkle  like  tears
frozen on the face of the blue sky.

    Merilon. Two cities; one built on marble platforms constrained  by
magic to float in the air like  heavy clouds that have been tamed  and
molded by the hands of man.  Known as City Above, it casts  perpetual,
rosy-hued twilight upon City Below.

    Merilon. Surrounded  by a  sphere of  magic, its  decorative  snow
falls beneath a hot  summer sun, its balmy  breezes perfume chill  and
brittle winter air.

    Merilon. Can any  visitor, riding upward  in the gilded  carriages
drawn by steeds of fur and leather created out of wonder and  delight,
look upon this enchanted  city without feeling  his heart swell  until
its overflow of pride and love must trickle down his own face?

    Certainly not Saryon. Sitting in the carriage created to  resemble
half a walnut shell made of gold  and silver and drawn by a  fanciful,
winged squirrel, he looked at the wonders around him and could  barely
see them for his  tears. This was  nothing for him  to be ashamed  of,
however. Most of the  other catalysts in  Bishop Vanya's retinue  were
affected  in  a  similar  manner,  the  exception  being  the  cynical
Dulchase. Having been born and raised  in Merilon, he had seen it  all
before and now he sat in the  carriage gazing upon the wonders with  a
bored air much envied by his fellows.

    For Saryon, the tears he shed  were both a relief and a  blessing.
The last few days in the Font had not been easy for him. Bishop  Vanya
had succeeded in keeping the  matter of the young man's  transgression
quiet, and he had  impressed upon Saryon that  it was in the  Church's
best interest for him to keep silent upon the subject as well.  Saryon
was a very poor dissembler however. His guilt made him feel as  though
the words Ninth Mystery were blazing above his head in letters of fire
for everyone to see. So wretched  was he, despite Vanya's kind  words,
that he must sooner or later have  blurted out his guilt to the  first
person who mentioned "Library" to him.  The only thing that saved  him
and kept him  too occupied to  think of  his crime was  the flurry  of
activity into which he was plunged getting ready for this journey.

    Precisely what Vanya had foreseen.

    The Bishop himself, riding ahead of his retinue in the Cathedral's
carriage that was formed of leaves of burnished gold and drawn by  two
birds of bright red plumage, was reflecting on this and wondering idly
how his young  sinner was getting  along as he  gazed about the  city.
Vanya, too, was unimpressed by the beauties of Merilon. He had seen it
all many, many times.

    The Bishop's bored gaze darted over the crystal walls of the three
Guild Houses that  could been  seen, standing each  upon its  matching
marble platform  that together  were known  as the  Three Sisters.  He
glanced once at the  Inn of the Silken  Dragon, so called because  its
crystal walls  were  decorated with  a  series of  over  five  hundred
fabulous  tapestries,  one   for  each  room,   which,  when   lowered
simultaneously in the evening,  formed the picture  of a dragon  whose
colors flamed against the  sky like a rainbow.  He yawned when  driven
past the  houses  of the  nobility,  whose crystal  walls  shone  with
curtains of roses, or silks, or  swirling fogs. Upon glancing up  into
the sky at the  Royal Palace that  shown above the  city like a  star,
however, Bishop Vanya  sighed. It was  not a sigh  of wonder and  awe,
such as his retinue was sighing behind him. It was a sigh of worry and
of care, or perhaps exasperation.

    The only  building in  all of  the upper  levels of  Merilon  that
captured the Bishop's attention completely  was the building to  which
the carriages were heading-the Cathedral  of Merilon. Thirty years  in
the shaping, its crystal  spires and buttresses  burned like flame  in
the light of the sun, whose ordinary natural yellowish color had  been
changed to brilliant red and fiery gold this day by the  practitioners
of the  Shadow Mystery,  the illusionists,  for the  enjoyment of  the
populace. Vanya's attention was caught,  not by the shimmering  beauty
of  the  Cathedral-the  sight  of  which  filled  his  followers  with
reverence-but by a flaw he noticed in the building.

    One of the living gargoyles  had shifted slightly in its  attitude
and was now facing the wrong  direction. The Bishop mentioned this  to
the Cardinal sitting  beside him, who  appeared properly shocked.  The
secretary, sitting  opposite  the  Bishop,  made  a  mental  note  and
mentioned it to the Regional Cardinal, who directed the affairs of the
Church in  Merilon and  its surrounding  environs and  who now  stood,
resplendent in his green robes with  their gold and silver trim,  upon
the crystal stairs waiting to  greet his Bishop. Glancing upward,  the
Regional Cardinal paled. Two novitiates were immediately sent to  deal
with the offending gargoyle.

    The infraction corrected, the Bishop  and his retinue entered  the
Cathedral, accompanied by the cheers of people lining the bridges that
connected the  marble  platforms of  Merilon  with cobweb  strands  of
silver and  gold. The  Bishop paused  to invoke  a blessing  upon  the
crowd, who hushed in reverence. Then Vanya and his retinue disappeared
inside the  Cathedral  and  the  crowd  dispersed  to  continue  their
merriment.

    The city of Merilon, both Above and Below, was jammed with people.
Merilon had not  known such  excitement since  the coronation.  Nobles
from outlying districts  who had  relations in the  city honored  them
with their presence. Nobles not so  fortunate stayed in the Inn.  From
the tip of  its nose to  the end of  its tail, the  Silken Dragon  was
filled to capacity. The Pron-alban  and the Quin-alban, craftsmen  and
conjurers, had been  working overtime  to add  on guest  rooms to  the
wealthy dwellings of  Merilon's best families.  Thus the Guild  Houses
were alive  with  unusual  activity,  many  of  their  members  having
journeyed from far-distant places to assist with the extra work.

    Day-to-day life in Mention had practically come to a standstill as
everyone prepared for the grandest holiday and celebration to be  held
in the city's  history. The air  was filled with  the sounds of  music
being practiced in the gardens and  courtyards, or with the sounds  of
poetry being rehearsed  by the players  in the theaters,  or with  the
cries of the  merchants selling  their wares, or  with the  mysterious
shrouds of smoke that hid the artists' work until it could be unveiled
upon the grand occasion.

    But no matter how busy, the eyes of every person in Merilon looked
constantly upward,  gazing  at  the Royal  Castle  that  glittered  so
serenely in the  burning sun.  It would  become a  perfect rainbow  of
colored silks when the great event  was at hand, when the Royal  Child
was born.

    When that event occurred,  the holiday would  be declared and  the
city of Merilon would, for two  weeks, dance and sing and glitter  and
revel and drink and eat itself into a state of bliss.

    Within the Cathedral itself,  all was quiet and  cool and dark  as
the sun sank down behind the mountains and night covered Merilon  with
its velvet wings. For an instant,  an evening star gleaming above  the
tip of a  spire was the  only light. But  it faded almost  immediately
when the rest of the city burst into a blaze of flame and color.  Only
the Cathedral  remained  serenely  dark; and,  oddly  enough,  thought
Saryon, staring up  through the transparent  crystal ceiling to  where
the castle floated in the sky above, there were no lights in the Royal
Palace either.

    But perhaps it  was not so  odd that the  castle was dark.  Saryon
recalled hearing his mother mention  that the Empress was expected  to
have a difficult time with this  birth, her health being delicate  and
fragile at the best of times.  Undoubtedly the normal routine of  gay,
glittering palace life had been curtailed.

    Saryon's gaze returned to  the city that  was more beautiful  than
anything he had ever imagined, and he was momentarily sorry he  hadn't
gone  out  with  Dulchase  and  the  others  to  see  the  sights.  On
reflection, however, he felt content to stay where he was,  surrounded
by a  comfortable  darkness,  listening  to the  sweet  music  of  the
novitiates practicing a celebratory Te Deum. He would go out  tomorrow
night, he decided, as  he made his  way to the  guest quarters in  the
Abbey.

    Neither Saryon nor any of the others in the Cathedral went out the
next night,  however. They  had just  finished the  evening meal  when
Bishop Vanya  received an  urgent summons  to the  Palace, along  with
several of the Sharak-Li, the catalysts who work with the Healers. The
Bishop left immediately his round face stern and cold.

    No one  in  the Cathedral  slept  that night.  Everyone  from  the
youngest novitiate  to the  Cardinal of  the Realm  remained awake  to
offer their prayers to the Aimin. Above them, the Royal Palace was now
ablaze with  lights, their  warmth  a striking  contrast to  the  cold
stars. By dawn,  no word had  been received. As  the starlight  faded,
dwindling with the rising  of the sun, the  catalysts were allowed  to
leave their prayers  to attend  to their duties,  though the  Cardinal
exhorted them to be constantly praying to the Almin in their hearts.

    Saryon, who had no duties to perform since he was a visitor, spent
most of his time wandering the  great halls of the Cathedral,  looking
through the crystal walls  with untiring curiosity  at the wonders  of
the city around  him. He  watched the  people float  past, their  thin
robes rippling  around their  bodies as  they went  about their  daily
business. He watched the carriages and their wondrous steeds; he  even
smiled at the antics of the University students who, knowing a holiday
was imminent, were in high spirits.

    Could I  live here?  he asked  himself. Could  I leave  my  quiet,
studious life and  enter into  this world  of splendor  and gaiety?  A
month ago, I would have said no.  I was content. But not now. I  could
never go into the Inner Library again, not without seeing that  sealed
chamber with the  runes above the  door. No, this  is much better,  he
decided. The Bishop was right. I have let myself get too involved with
my studies. I have  forgotten the world.  Now I must be  a part of  it
again and let it be  a part of me. I  will attend the parties. I  will
put myself forward. I will  do my best to be  invited into one of  the
noble houses.

    Pleased with his change of circumstance, Saryon's only  misgivings
came from being totally unaware of  the duties of a House Catalyst  in
Merilon, and he resolved to discuss  this with Deacon Dulchase at  his
earliest opportunity.

    The opportunity did not come  soon, however. During the  Highhour,
both Cardinals were summoned  to the Palace  and left, looking  grave.
The rest of the  catalysts were called once  again to prayer. By  now,
rumors had reached the street, and soon everyone in Merilon knew  that
the Empress was in labor and having a difficult time of it. The sounds
of music ceased. The atmosphere  of merriment was smothered in  gloom.
People gathered together upon the glittering spans of silver or  gold,
talking in hushed  voices and looking  up at the  Palace with  serious
faces. Even the Silken Dragon did  not flaunt his colors that day  but
lurked about in shadows  as the weather magi,  the Sif-Hanar, hid  the
sun's harsh brilliance  beneath a blanket  of pearl-gray clouds,  more
restful to the eye and conducive to prayer and meditation.

    Night fell.  The  lights  in  the Palace  shone  with  an  ominous
intensity. The catalysts, once more called to prayer after the evening
meal, gathered in the great  Cathedral. Kneeling on the marble  floor,
Saryon nodded  as  sleep overcame  him  and, looking  up  through  the
crystal ceiling, endeavored  to concentrate  on those  lights to  stay
awake.

    Then, near morning, the  bells on the Royal  Palace pealed out  in
triumph.  The  magical  sphere  surrounding  the  city  exploded  with
dazzling flags of fire  and of silk. The  people of Merilon danced  in
the streets as  word came from  the Palace that  the Empress had  been
safely delivered of a son  and that both she  and the baby were  doing
well. Saryon rose from the hard floor thankfully and joined the  other
catalysts in the courtyard of the Cathedral to watch the spectacle but
not to join in the merriment. Not yet.

    Though the Tests  for Life  were only a  formality, the  catalysts
would not celebrate  the child's birth  until it was  proven that  the
child was Alive.

    It was not the Tests,  however, that were occupying Saryon's  mind
when, ten  days  after  the  child's birth,  he  and  Deacon  Dulchase
descended the marble stairs leading down into one of the  subterranean
levels of the Cathedral. "So just what  are the duties of a Father  in
one of the noble houses?" Saryon asked.

    Dulchase started to answer but, just at that moment, they  arrived
in an unfamiliar hallway  that branched off  in three directions.  The
two Deacons paused, staring about them uncertainly. Finally,  Dulchase
hailed a passing novitiate.

    "Pardon me, Sister," he said, "but  we are searching for the  room
where the Royal Child will be tested. Can you give us direction?"

    "I will be honored to escort  you, Deacons of the Font,"  murmured
the novitiate, a charming young woman, who, when her eyes went to  the
tall  figure  of  Saryon,  smiled  at  him  shyly  and  led  the  way,
occasionally glancing behind her at the young Deacon out of the corner
of her eye.

    Conscious of this, and conscious  also of Dulchase's amused  grin,
Saryon flushed and repeated his earlier question.

    "House Catalyst," Dulchase reflected. "So that's what old  Vanya's
got in mind for you. Didn't think you'd be interested in that sort  of
life," he added with a sidelong glance of his own at the young Deacon.
"I thought all you cared about was mathematics."

    Saryon's flush deepened, and  he mumbled something confused  about
the Bishop  having decided  that he  needed to  broaden his  horizons,
realize his potential, that sort of thing.

    Dulchase  raised  an  eyebrow  as  they  descended  still  another
staircase, but, though he obviously suspected deeper waters here  than
were visible  on  the surface,  he  did  not question  the  young  man
further, much to Saryon's relief.

    "Be warned, Brother," he  said in solemn tones.  "The duties of  a
catalyst in one  of the  noble houses  are strenuous  in the  extreme.
Let's see, how to break this to you gently. You will be awakened  some
time around mid morning by servants  bearing your breakfast on a  tray
of gold-"

    "What about the  Ritual of the  Dawn?" Saryon interrupted,  eyeing
Dulchase uncertainly,  as though  suspecting he  were being  made  the
brunt of some joke.

    Dulchase's lip curled in  a sneer, a  habitual expression for  the
older Deacon who, because of his sharp tongue and irreverent attitude,
would probably be a Deacon the rest  of his life. He had been  brought
along in Vanya's retinue only because he knew everyone and  everything
that lived or occurred in Merilon, "Dawn? Bosh! Dawn comes to  Merilon
whenever you open your eyes. You'd have the house in an uproar if  you
rose with the  sun. Come to  think of  it, the sun  itself isn't  even
permitted to rise at dawn. The  Sif-Hanar see to that. Now, where  was
I? Oh, yes.  Your first order  of business is  to grant the  housemagi
their gifts  of  Life for  the  day.  Then, after  resting  from  that
fatiguing chore,  which  takes  you  all  of  five  minutes,  you  are
occasionally requested  to do  the same  for the  Master or  Mistress,
should they  have  any important  work  to  do, such  as  feeding  the
peacocks or changing  the color of  milady's eyes to  match her  gown.
Then, if they have children, you have to educate the little buggers in
their catechism and give them sufficient Life so that they may  tumble
about the house, delighting their  parents by wrecking the  furniture.
After that you may rest until evening when you will escort milord  and
milady to the Royal Palace, standing  by in order to assist milord  in
creating his  usual phantasms  that leave  the Emperor  yawning or  to
grant Life to milady so that she may win at Swan's Doom or tarok."

    "Are you serious?" asked Saryon, rather anxiously.

    Looking at  him,  Dulchase  burst  out  laughing  and  received  a
reproving glance from the serious-minded novitiate.

    "My dear Saryon, how  naive you are! Perhaps  old Vanya is  right.
You do  need to  get out  in  the world.  I'm exaggerating,  but  only
slightly. Still,  it's an  ideal  life, especially  as far  as  you're
concerned."

    "It is?"

    "Of  course.  You  have  all  the  resources  of  magic  at   your
fingertips. You  can  spend  the  afternoon  in  the  Library  at  the
University here in Merilon, which, by  the way, has one of the  finest
collections in the world  on the lost  magic, containing some  volumes
not even available at the Font. Step onto the silver bridge and you're
there. Want to pursue some studies  with the Guilds or show them  your
newest equation to cut the time in conjuring up a fainting couch? Step
into milord's carriage  and have  it take  you to  the Three  Sisters.
Perhaps you want to see for yourself how milord's crops are doing. The
Corridor whisks you to the fields where you can watch the little seeds
sprout or whatever those poor  wretches of Field Catalysts do.  You'll
be set for life. Why, you could even marry."

    This was so obviously aimed at the novitiate that the girl  tossed
her head  disapprovingly,  but  she could  not  refrain  from  casting
another glance at the young Deacon.

    "I think I might  like it at that,"  said Saryon after a  moment's
reflection,  "from  an  academic  standpoint,  of  course,"  he  added
hastily.

    "Of course," Dulchase replied dryly. "I say, my dear"-this to  the
novitiate-"you haven't gotten us lost, have you? Or are you leading us
into some remote part of the Cathedral to rob us?"

    "Deacon!" murmured the novitiate, blushing up to the roots of  her
curly hair.  "It-it's  down this  corridor,  the first  room  to  your
right."

    Turning, with a last, doe-eyed  glance at Saryon, the girl  almost
ran down the hallway.

    "Was  that  necessary?"  muttered   Saryon  irritably,  his   eyes
following the novitiate.

    "Oh, lighten  up, boy,"  returned  Dulchase crisply,  rubbing  his
hands. "Lighten  up.  You'll see  what  kind of  life  Merilon  offers
tonight. At last! We  can escape this moldy  old tomb! We'll get  this
little twerp through  his Tests, declare  to the world  that it has  a
Living Prince, and it's time  for us to mingle  with the rich and  the
beautiful. You do know what you're supposed to do, don't you?"

    "With the Tests?"  Saryon asked,  thinking for  a moment  Dulchase
might have been referring to the  rich and beautiful. "I hope so,"  he
answered with  a  sigh. "I've  read  the ritual  until  I can  say  it
backwards. You've done this before, haven't you?"

    "Hundreds of  times,  my  boy, hundreds.  You're  responsible  for
holding the kid, aren't  you? Most important thing  to remember is  to
hold him with  his little-mmmm... you  know-pointing toward you,  away
from the Bishop. That way, if the little bastard urinates, it's on you
and not His Holiness."

    Fortunately for the  shocked Saryon they  had arrived outside  the
room now, Dulchase was forced to silence his cynical tongue and Saryon
was spared responding  to this last  bit of advice  that he had  found
just a bit too irreverent, even for Dulchase.

    Entering on the  heels of  the others  of Vanya's  staff, the  two
performed the  oblations of  cleaning and  purifying themselves,  then
were led  by a  Deacon of  the  Catheidral to  the chamber  where  all
children born in Merilon  are brought for  the Tests. Generally,  only
two catalysts are present. This day, however, there was an illustrious
group gathered. So many,  in fact, that there  was barely enough  room
left for  the two  Deacons to  squeeze inside  the small  chamber.  In
addition to Bishop Vanya, dressed in his finest robes, there were  the
two Cardinals-Cardinal of the Realm and Cardinal of the Region-and six
members of Vanya's staff:  four Priests, who  would act as  witnesses,
and Saryon and Dulchase,  the two Deacons, who  would do the work.  In
addition, there was  the Royal House  Catalyst, a Lord,  who held  the
baby  in  his  arms,  and  the  baby  himself,  who-having  just  been
nursed-was sound asleep.

    "Let us pray to the Almin," said Bishop Vanya, bowing his head.

    Saryon bowed his head in prayer, but the words fell from his  lips
unthinkingly. In his mind he was reviewing, once more, the ceremony of
the Tests for Life.

    Centuries old, said to have been brought from the Dark World,  the
Tests are quite  simple. When  the child is  ten days  old and  judged
strong enough to withstand the Testing,  his parents bring him to  the
Cathedral-or to whatever place of worship is near them-and give him to
the catalysts. The baby is taken into a small chamber sealed off  from
any outside influences, and the Tests are performed.

    First, the child is stripped of his clothes, then placed upon  his
back in water that has been warmed to his body temperature. The Deacon
holding the child  releases the  babe, A Living  child remains  afloat
upon his  back, neither  sinking nor  rolling over  in the  water  nor
kicking-just floating peacefully, calmly-the  magical Life within  him
reacting to preserve his tiny body.

    Following this  first  test, a  Deacon  brings forward  a  shining
bauble of  shimmering, ever-changing  colors. He  holds it  above  the
child, who is  still floating  in the  water. Though  the baby's  eyes
cannot yet focus,  he is  aware of the  bauble and  stretches out  his
hands toward it. When the Deacon drops the bauble, it drifts gently to
the baby  as, once  again, the  magical Life  force within  the  child
reacts to the stimulus without and draws the bauble toward him.

    Finally, the Deacon lifts the baby  out of the water. Holding  the
babe in his arms, the catalyst cuddles and caresses the baby until the
child feels safe and at ease. Then, the other Deacon brings forward  a
flaming torch. Nearer and nearer the  flame comes to the child's  skin
until-through no action of the catalyst-the torch is brought to a halt
as the  child's Life  force instinctively  envelops him  in a  magical
protective shell.

    These are  the  Tests-easily  done,  quickly  ended.  It  was,  as
Dulchase had assured Saryon, a mere matter of formality.

    "I don't know why they're still performed," Dulchase had  grumbled
only the night  before, "except that  it's a convenient  way for  some
poor Field Catalyst to earn a few  chickens and a bushel of corn  from
the peasants. Plus it  gives the nobility an  excuse to throw  another
party. Other than that, it's meaningless."

    So it was, up until that time.

    "Deacon Dulchase,  Deacon Saryon,  begin the  Tests," said  Bishop
Vanya solemnly.

    Stepping forward, Saryon took the  baby from the Lord Catalyst  of
the Royal House.  The child was  wrapped tightly in  a costly  blanket
made of lamb's  wool, Saryon, unaccustomed  to handling anything  this
small and delicate, fumbled as he attempted to divest the baby of  his
cocoon without waking him. At length, feeling every eye in the chamber
watching him impatiently, Saryon held the naked child in his arms  and
returned the blanket to the Lord Catalyst.

    Turning to place the babe in the water, Saryon looked down at  the
little boy sleeping peacefully in his arms and immediately forgot  the
eyes watching him. The  young catalyst had never  held a baby  before,
and he was  captivated by  this one. Even  Saryon could  see that  the
child was unusually beautiful. Strong and healthy with a mop of  fuzzy
dark hair, the Prince's skin was alabaster, with a bluish tint  around
the closed eyes. The tiny fists were curled shut. Touching one gently,
Saryon was  charmed  to  notice the  perfect  little  fingernails  and
toenails. How marvelous, he thought, that the Almin should have  taken
time to attend to such mundane details in creating this small person.

    An impatient cough  from Dulchase recalled  Saryon to his  duties.
The older Deacon had  removed the seal from  the basin containing  the
warm water. A  pleasant, fragrant  scent filled  the air.  One of  the
novitiates had scattered rose petals on the surface.

    Murmuring the ritual  prayer that he  had been up  half the  night
memorizing, Saryon gently placed  the baby in  the water. The  child's
eyes opened at the touch of the  liquid upon his skin, but he did  not
cry.

    "That's a brave one,"  murmured Saryon, smiling  at the baby,  who
was looking around with the thoughtful, slightly puzzled expression of
the newborn.

    "Release the child," instructed Bishop Vanya formally.

    Gently, Saryon removed his hands from the baby's body.

    The Prince sank like a stone.

    Starting slightly, Dulchase stepped forward, but Saryon was  there
ahead of him.  Reaching into the  water, he snatched  up the baby  and
hauled him  out. Awkwardly  holding the  dripping-wet child,  who  was
coughing and sputtering and attempting to cry at this rude  treatment,
Saryon looked around uncertainly.

    "Perhaps it was my fault, Holiness," he said hurriedly just as the
baby managed to draw a  breath and let it out  in a shrill scream.  "I
let go of him too soon..."

    "Nonsense, Deacon," Vanya said crisply. "Proceed."

    It  wasn't  unusual  for  a  child  to  fail  one  of  the  Tests,
particularly if he were  unusually strong in one  of the Mysteries.  A
warlock strong in the Fire Mystery, for example, might easily fail the
Test of Water.

    Recalling this from his reading, Saryon relaxed and held the  baby
as Deacon Dulchase brought  forward the bauble and  held it above  the
child's head. At the sight of the bright toy, the Prince ceased to cry
and stretched out  his tiny hands  in delight. Deacon  Dulchase, at  a
word from Bishop Vanya, dropped the bauble.

    The toy struck  the Prince on  the nose and  bounced to the  floor
amidst a dreadful silence that was immediately shattered by the baby's
howl of pain and outrage. A spot of blood appeared on the child's fair
skin.

    Saryon glanced up fearfully at  Dulchase, hoping to see some  sign
of reassurance. But Dulchase's normally sneering lips were now pressed
tightly together, the  cynical glint  was gone  from his  eye, and  he
carefully avoided  Saryon's  gaze.  The  young  Deacon  looked  around
frantically, only  to  see  his  fellows  staring  at  each  other  in
confusion and alarm.

    Bishop Vanya whispered  something to the  Lord Catalyst, who,  his
face pale and strained, nodded emphatically.

    "Repeat the first Test," Vanya ordered.

    His hands shaking, Saryon placed the screaming child in the water,
then released him.  As soon as  it was obvious  the baby was  sinking,
Saryon-at a hurried gesture from the Bishop-grabbed him out.

    "The Almin help  us!" breathed  the Lord Catalyst  in a  trembling
voice.

    "I think it's too late for that," Vanya replied coldly. "Bring the
child here,  Saryon," he  said, his  nervousness apparent  in that  he
forgot to include the formal  title "Deacon" in his command.  Clumsily
attempting to soothe  the baby,  Saryon hurried  to obey  and came  to
stand before the Bishop.

    "Give me the  torch," Vanya  ordered Deacon  Dulchase, who  having
reluctantly taken  it up,  was only  too happy  to release  it to  his
superior.

    Grasping the flaming torch, Bishop  Vanya thrust it directly  into
the baby's face. The  child shrieked in  pain, and Saryon,  forgetting
himself, caught hold  of the Bishop's  arm, pushing him  away with  an
angry cry.

    No one said  a word. Everyone  in the chamber  could smell  singed
hair. Everyone could see the red burn mark upon the baby's temple.

    Trembling, clutching the injured child to his chest, Saryon turned
away from the pale faces and the horror-filled, staring eyes.  Patting
the child,  who was  now screaming  in a  hysterical frenzy,  Saryon's
first incoherent thought was that he had committed another sin. He had
dared touch the body of his superior without permission-and, worse, he
had actually shoved him in anger. The young Deacon cringed,  expecting
a sharp reprimand. But it did not come. Glancing over his shoulder  at
Bishop Vanya's face, Saryon saw why.

    The Bishop probably never even knew Saryon had touched him. He was
staring at the  baby, his heavy  face ashen, his  eyes wide. The  Lord
Catalyst wrung  his hands  and trembled  visibly while  the  Cardinals
stood by, looking at each other helplessly.

    The Prince, meanwhile, was screaming with the pain of the burn  so
violently that he was near strangling. Not knowing what else to do and
realizing that  the baby's  crying was  shredding the  taut nerves  of
everyone in the room, Saryon tried  desperately to hush the child.  At
length he succeeded, more because the baby cried himself into a  state
of exhaustion than because the  young catalyst possessed any skill  in
nursing. Silence settled upon  the room like a  dank fog, broken  only
now and then by the baby's hiccup.

    Then Bishop Vanya spoke. "Such a thing," he whispered, "has  never
happened in all the years of history, even back before the Iron Wars."

    The awe in his voice was plain, something Saryon could understand.
It matched his own. But there  was another note in Vanya's voice  that
made Saryon shudder-a note  he had never heard  in the Bishop's  voice
before-a note of fear.

    Sighing and removing  the heavy  miter, Vanya  passed a  trembling
hand over his tonsured head. With the removal of the miter, he  seemed
to remove all the aura of mystique and majesty that surrounded him and
Saryon, patting the baby's  back, saw a  paunchy, middle-aged man  who
looked extremely fatigued and scared. This frightened Saryon more than
anything and, from the looks on the faces of the others, he wasn't the
only one who received this impression.

    "What I am about to tell you to do, you must do without question,"
Vanya said in a thick voice, his eyes on the miter that he held in his
hands. Absently  he stroked  the gold  trim with  shaking fingers.  "I
could give you  the reason-No." Vanya  looked up, his  gaze stern  and
cold. "No, I vowed  to keep silent.  I cannot break  my vow. You  will
obey me. You  will not question.  Understand that I  take upon  myself
full responsibility for what I require you to do."

    He paused a moment  then, with a quavering  breath, began to  pray
silently.

    Holding the hiccuping  child in  his arms, Saryon  glanced at  the
others to see  if they understood.  He didn't. He'd  never heard of  a
child failing the Testing.  What was coming?  What terrible thing  was
the Bishop going  to ask  them to  do? His  gaze went  back to  Vanya.
Everyone in the room was staring at the Bishop, waiting for him to use
his magic to save them. It was as if each of them had opened a conduit
to Vanya, not to give him Life, but to take Life from him.

    Perhaps this very  dependence gave  him strength,  for the  Bishop
straightened and  raised his  head.  His lips  pursed. His  eyes  grew
abstract and he frowned, still considering. Then, apparently  reaching
a decision,  his  brow  cleared,  his face  resumed  its  normal  cool
composure. He replaced the  miter, and the Bishop  of the Realm  stood
before his people once again.

    Bishop Vanya  turned to  Saryon. "Take  the child  to the  nursery
directly," he ordered. "Do not take him to his mother. I will speak to
the Empress myself and prepare her. It  will be easier for her in  the
long ran if we make this separation clean and swift."

    The Lord Catalyst  made a  kind of sound  here, a  sort of  choked
wail. But Bishop  Vanya, his  paunchy face  freezing as  if the  chill
silence in the room had seeped  into his blood, ignored him.  Speaking
in an emotionless voice, he continued,  "From this hour on, the  child
is to be given no food, no water. He is not to be held. He is Dead."

    The Bishop went on to say something else, but Saryon did not hear.
The baby was hiccuping against his shoulder; his best ceremonial robes
were wet with the child's tears.  Having managed to capture one  fist,
the Prince was  sucking on it  noisily, staring at  Saryon with  wide,
unfocused eyes. The Deacon could feel the tiny body quiver as, now and
then, a soft sob shook it.

    Saryon stared down at the child, his thoughts confused, his  heart
aching. He'd heard somewhere that all babies are born with blue  eyes,
but this child's eyes were a dark,  cloudy blue. Did he look like  his
mother, who was reputed to  be extraordinarily beautiful? The  Empress
had brown eyes, Saryon recalled  hearing. And she had long  blue-black
hair, so luxuriant that she needed no magic to make it glisten like  a
raven's wing. Thinking of this and  looking at the fuzzy head of  dark
hair, Saryon saw that the skin  of the baby's temple was beginning  to
blister. Reflexively  he reached  to touch  it, his  lips forming  the
words of the healing prayer that would enhance the healing Life of the
baby's own body. Then Saryon  stopped, remembering. This child had  no
healing Life within his body. No Life stirred there at all.

    The young Deacon held a corpse in his arms.

    The Prince drew a deep, sudden, shaking breath. He seemed about to
cry, but he continued sucking on his fist and this appeared to satisfy
him. Snuggling  against Saryon,  he stared  at him  with those  targe,
black-lashed eyes.

    From this moment  on, Saryon  thought, his  heart constricting  in
pain, I will be the last person to  hold him, to pat his back, to  run
fingers over the tiny, silky-haired head. Swift tears stung his  eyes,
and he looked  around helplessly,  silently pleading with  one of  the
others to take this burden from him.  No one did. No one even met  his
gaze except Bishop  Vanya, who  frowned, seeing his  orders not  being
obeyed.

    Saryon opened his lips to speak, to question this cruel  decision,
but his voice  caught in  his throat. Vanya  had said  they must  obey
without  knowing  why.  The  Bishop   would  take  upon  himself   the
responsibility. Would the pleas of a Deacon move him? A Deacon already
in disgrace? Not likely.  There was nothing for  Saryon to do but  bow
and leave the  room, still awkwardly  patting the Prince's  back in  a
manner that seemed to soothe him.  Once in the corridor, however,  the
young Deacon had no idea where he was going in the immense  Cathedral.
All he knew was that, somehow, he  had to get to the Royal Palace.  At
the end of  the hall, Saryon  caught a  glimpse of a  dark shadow,  an
Enforcer. Saryon  hesitated.  The  warlock could  direct  him  to  the
Palace. He could send him there, in fact, using his magic.

    Looking at the black-robed figure, Saryon shuddered and,  turning,
walked hurriedly in the opposite direction. I will find my own way  to
the Royal Palace, he thought  with swift, frustrated anger. At  least,
if I walk, I can  offer this poor child  what comfort I can  before...
before...

    The last thing  Saryon heard as  he left the  corridor was  Bishop
Vanya's voice.

    "Tomorrow morning, the  Emperor and the  Empress will make  public
their agreement that the child  is Dead. I will  take the baby to  the
Font. There, tomorrow  afternoon, the Deathwatch  will begin. I  hope,
for the sake of us all, that it passes swiftly."

    For the sake of us all.

    The next  day, Deacon  Saryon  stood in  the lovely  Cathedral  of
Merilon, listening to the wailing of the dead child and the whispering
of his  plans  and hopes  and  visions and  dreams  as they  bade  him
good-bye.

    There would be no celebrations in Merilon now, no introductions to
noble houses. The people were in a daze. Gala parties ceased  abruptly
as the news spread. The Sif-Hanar shrouded the city in a gray fog. The
players and artisans left town and the students were herded back  into
the University.  The nobles  flitted through  the ghostly  atmosphere,
going from house to house, talking in hushed tones and endeavoring  to
find someone who remembered the  proper form for observing the  somber
Hours of the Deathwatch. Few knew how such things should be conducted.
It had been years since a Royal Child had even been born; no one could
recall having heard of one dying.

    Bishop  Vanya,  of  course,  had   all  the  information  at   his
fingertips, and eventually the word went forth. By the time Saryon was
standing in the Cathedral, robed in his Weeping Blue, the entire  city
had  undergone  a  change-the  Pron-alban,  the  craftsmen,  and   the
Quin-alban, the conjurers, having worked feverishly all night.

    The gray fog remained over the  city and deepened until the  sun's
rays could not penetrate the  magical shroud that covered the  deathly
silent streets and  drifted up among  the rose-hued marble  platforms.
The gay colors that had decorated the glittering crystal walls of  the
dwellings vanished, replaced by tapestries of mournful gray, making it
look as though the  fog had been given  shape and form and  substance.
Even the great Silken Dragon  fled, creeping into his lair-so  parents
told their children-to mourn the Dead Prince.

    The streets were silent  and empty. Those  not in attendance  upon
the grieving Royal  Family were  confined to  their homes,  ostensibly
adding their prayers to those  of their neighbors that the  Deathwatch
be swiftly ended.  But, in  many of these  homes, the  prayers of  the
young mothers fell from  pale, trembling lips as  they held their  own
children close, while those expecting children placed their hands upon
their swollen bodies and could not  make their lips form the words  of
the prayers at all.

    When the ceremony had been completed, the baby was taken away. The
Deathwatch began.

    Within five days, word came back that all was ended.

    After that  time, more  children of  the noble  houses of  Merilon
failed their Testing, though none  so drastically as the Prince.  Most
of these  babies were  taken to  the Font,  where the  Deathwatch  was
performed.

    Most, but not all.

    Saryon, at  Vanya's request,  stayed  in Merilon  to work  in  the
Cathedral there. Part of his responsibilities included the Testing  of
these children. At first he so hated it that he thought he might rebel
and demand a  new assignment. Anything  seemed better-even becoming  a
Field Catalyst. But it was not in Saryon's nature to openly rebel and,
after a time, he grew resigned to his work, if not hardened.

    Saryon could see  the reasoning  behind the  destruction of  these
children. It  was expounded  by the  Bishop, in  fact, when  the  Test
failures began to occur more and more frequently. People were confused
and frightened and  starting to mutter  darkly against the  catalysts,
who,  meanwhile,  were  delving  into  every  conceivable  source-even
ancient ones-searching for answers to their perplexing questions.

    Why was  this happening?  How could  it be  stopped? And  why,  in
particular, was it happening  only to the nobility?  For, it was  soon
discovered, the common city  dwellers as well as  the peasants in  the
fields and villages were bearing healthy, living children. The  people
of Merilon demanded answers, forcing Bishop Vanya to deliver a  sermon
in the Cathedral, designed to calm the populace.

    "These unfortunate children are not  children at all," the  Bishop
cried earnestly, his hands clenched  in his passionate intensity,  his
words echoing from the  vaulting crystal ceiling.  "They are weeds  in
the garden of our Life!  We must uproot them  and wither them, as  the
Field Magi wither the weeds in field, or they will soon choke out  the
magic within the world."

    This dire prediction  has its  intended effect.  After that,  most
parents accepted the will of the  Almin and consigned their Dead  into
the hands of the catalysts. But some parents rebelled. In secret, they
tested the children themselves and, if  the baby failed, they hid  the
child until it could be smuggled  out of the city. The catalysts  knew
of this,  but  there was  nothing  they  could do  except  keep  these
occurrences quiet, so that they did not unduly alarm the populace.

    And so, in increasing  numbers, the Dead  walked the land,  Saryon
recorded one night in his journal. And our fear grew.

    7

    Anja The overseer  hovered above  the ground  at the  edge of  the
field, keeping his eyes upon the  dozen or so magi flitting among  the
crops like drab butterflies. Up and down among the rows of beans  they
fluttered, their plain brown clothing standing out against the  bright
green of the  bean plants. Dipping  down, they withered  weeds with  a
touch of their hands or gave a  renewed burst of Life to a  straggling
plant or gently removed some predatory bug and sent it upon its way.

    Nodding in satisfaction, the overseer transferred his gaze to  the
next field,  where other  magi were  trudging through  freshly  turned
soil. A crop had  been harvested from that  field last week and  these
magi were gleaning the last vestiges of grain. Then the field would be
allowed to rest before  the magi returned and,  using the magic  force
within them, parted  the soil  in neat rows  with a  gesture of  their
hands, preparing the soil for planting.

    Everything was  proceeding  well.  The overseer  would  have  been
surprised if it hadn't. Walren was  a small Field Magi settlement,  as
most went.  Part  of  the  Duke of  Nordshire's  holdings,  it  was  a
relatively new settlement, having  been established about one  hundred
years ago when a terrible  thunderstorm (caused by two warring  groups
of Sif-Hanar) started  a fire  that effectively cleared  the land  and
left dead wood enough for  homes. The Duke immediately took  advantage
of the situation, ordering a hundred  or so of his peasants to  remove
to the  settlement that  was on  the border  of the  Outlands,  finish
clearing, and then plant the land. They were far from the walls of the
city, far from other  settlements. Most of the  magi working here  had
been born here and would undoubtedly die here. There was no  grumbling
or talk of rebellion, as there had been in some villages the  overseer
had heard about.

    Movement caught the overseer's  eye. He immediately quit  lounging
and assumed a stern, businesslike air  when he saw the Field  Catalyst
slogging through the bean field, coming toward him.

    In Field Magi settlements,  the catalyst works  as hard or  harder
than the magi themselves.  Field Magi are allowed  only enough of  the
catalyst's transference of magical Life force to work efficiently, the
reason for this being  that magi have the  ability to store this  Life
force within them and  use it whenever they  need. Because of  certain
signs of discontent and restlessness among the Field Magi from time to
time, it  is  considered best  to  leave  them as  weak  as  possible.
Therefore, the Field  Catalyst is forced  to move among  the magi  and
restore their magical energies almost hourly-one reason why the job is
abhorred among the catalysts  and generally assigned  to those of  low
standing or to those who had committed some infraction of the rules of
the Order.

    Even as the catalyst walked through the field, his shoes-the  sign
of his calling-covered with mud, a magus dipped down to the earth  and
did not rise up again. Seeing the woman's hand lift into the air,  the
overseer caught the  catalyst's attention,  jerking his  thumb in  the
direction of the spent magus.

    "Call a rest,"  groaned the catalyst,  plopping himself down  upon
the ground. Yanking off his mud-caked shoes, he began to rub his feet,
not without first casting a bitter, envious glance at the bare feet of
the overseer. Although brown from the  sun, the man's feet were  still
smooth, the toes straight and widely separated- the sign of those  who
travel the world on the wings of magic.

    "Rest!" bellowed the overseer, and  the magi dropped from the  air
like dead moths to lie among the  shade of the bean plants or  drifted
prone upon the  air currents,  closing their eyes  against the  bright
sun.

    "Now, what have  we here?"  the overseer  muttered, his  attention
being drawn away from the field to  a figure that had appeared on  the
roadway leading through the woods to the flat farmland. The  catalyst,
noting with dismay that he had  a blister, lifted his head wearily  to
follow the overseer's gaze.

    The figure  approaching them  was  a woman.  She was  obviously  a
magus, by her clothing, yet she was walking, which meant that she  had
spent nearly all her magical Life force. Upon her back, she carried  a
burden-a bundle of some sort, probably clothing, the overseer  judged,
examining the woman attentively. This was another sign her Life  force
was weak, for magi rarely carried anything.

    The overseer  might have  assumed  the woman  was a  Field  Magus,
except that her clothes  were a strange, vibrant  color of green,  not
the brown, drab colors of those who tilled the soil.

    "A noble lady,"  murmured the  catalyst, hastily  dragging on  his
shoes again.

    "Aye," grumbled  the  overseer,  scowling. This  was  out  of  the
ordinary and  the overseer  hated  anything out  of the  ordinary.  It
almost certainly meant trouble.

    The woman was closer to them now, so close she heard their voices.
Raising her  head, she  looked straight  at them  and quite  suddenly,
stopped walking. The overseer saw her sunburned face twist in  haughty
pride, then-with what must have been a supreme effort-the woman slowly
rose up off the ground and floated toward the men in genteel  fashion.
The overseer glanced at the catalyst,  who raised his eyebrows as  the
woman drifted, rather unsteadily,  over the fields  until she came  to
rest before them. Then, with a  negligent air, making it appear as  if
she did  this  through choice,  not  because she  lacked  strength  to
continue on, the woman settled gently  to the ground and stood  gazing
at them proudly.

    "Milady," said the overseer,  bobbing his head in  a kind of  bow,
but not doffing his  hat as was  proper. Now that  she was closer,  he
could see that the woman's dress, though rich and made of fine quality
fabric, was worn and  tattered. The hem had  been dragged through  the
mud and muck of the roadside, there was a torn place on the skirt. Her
bare feet were cut and bleeding, "Is Your Ladyship lost or in need  of
aid...?" faltered  the  catalyst,  somewhat confused  by  the  woman's
shabby  appearance  and   the  fierce,  defiant   expression  on   her
dirt-streaked face.

    "I am neither," the woman answered in a low, tight voice. Her gaze
darting from one to the other of  them; she lifted her chin. "1 am  in
need of work."

    The catalyst opened his  mouth to refuse, but  at that moment  the
overseer coughed and made a slight gesture with his hand, pointing  to
the bundle on the woman's back. Looking where indicated, the  catalyst
swallowed his words. The bundle had moved. Two dark brown eyes  stared
out at him from above the woman's shoulder.

    A baby.

    The catalyst and the overseer exchanged glances.

    "Where do you come from, milady? " asked the overseer, feeling  it
was up to him to take charge.

    But the catalyst struck in. "And where is the babe's father?" This
asked in a severe tone, as befitted a member of the clergy.

    The woman appeared  undaunted by either  question. Her lip  curled
with a sneer, and, when she spoke, it was to the overseer, not to  the
catalyst. "I come from yonder." She indicated the direction of Merilon
by a nod of her head.  "As for the babe's father-my husband"-she  said
this with  emphasis-"is  dead. He  defied  the Emperor  and  was  sent
Beyond."

    Both men exchanged glances again.  They knew she was lying-no  one
had been sent  Beyond in  a year-but there  was such  a strange,  wild
glint in the woman's eyes that each man was wary of challenging her.

    "Well?" she said abruptly, shifting the position of the baby  that
was swaddled in the bundle on her back. "Do I get work or not?"

    "Have you sought aid of  the Church, milady?" the catalyst  asked.
"I am certain-"

    To his astonishment, the woman spit on the ground at his feet.

    "My babe and I would starve, will starve, before I accept a  crust
from the  hands  of  such as  you."  With  a scathing  glance  at  the
catalyst, she turned her back upon him and faced the overseer. "Do you
need another field  hand?" she asked  in her low,  husky voice. "I  am
strong. I will work hard."

    The overseer cleared  his throat uncomfortably.  He could see  the
baby peering out from the bundle, staring at him with wide, dark eyes.
What should  he do?  Certainly  nothing like  this  had ever  come  up
before-a noblewoman seeking work as an ordinary field hand!

    The overseer flicked a glance at  the cataJyst, though he knew  he
could expect no help from that quarter. Technically, the overseer,  as
Master Magus, was in charge of  the settlement, and though the  Church
might question his decisions, it would never question his authority to
make them. But now the overseer was in a tough spot. He had no  liking
for this woman. Indeed,  he felt a certain  revulsion as he looked  at
her and her  baby. At best,  it was probably  an illegal  mating-there
were certain unscrupulous catalysts who would perform such a thing  if
paid enough. At worst, it was  a rutting, the result of the  abhorrent
joining of male and female bodies.  Or perhaps the child was Dead,  he
had heard rumors that such babies were being smuggled out of  Merilon.
His inclination was to send this woman and her child away.

    But to do so, he knew, was to send them to certain death.

    Seeing the  overseer hesitate,  the catalyst  frowned and  trudged
over to stand beneath where the overseer floated in the air. Irritably
motioning the  overseer  to  come  down to  his  level,  the  catalyst
muttered, "I  can't  believe  you're really  considering  this!  She's
obviously  a...  well...   you  know..."  The   catalyst  flushed   in
embarrassment, seeing the overseer leer, and hurried on. "Tell her  to
be on her way. Or, better still, send for the Enforcers-"

    The overseer scowled. "I  don't need the  Duuk-tsarith to tell  me
how to manage my settlement. And what  would you have me do, send  her
and the babe into the Outland?  This is the last settlement this  side
of the river. You want to try to sleep nights, thinking about  what'll
happen to 'em out there?" He glanced back at the woman. She was young,
probably not more than  twenty. Once she might  have been pretty,  but
now her proud face was marked with lines of anger and hatred. Her body
was far too thin-the dress hung on her spare frame.

    The catalyst indicated,  from his sour  expression, that he  would
take his chances  on missing a  few nights'  sleep to be  rid of  this
female. This helped make up the overseer's mind.

    "Very well, milady,"  the overseer said  grudgingly, affecting  to
ignore the catalyst's look of shocked disapproval. "I can use  another
hand. You'll be given a  dwelling place-expense of His Lordship-a  bit
of ground to do with  as you please, and a  share in the crops. Be  in
the fields at dawn, leave at dark. Rest midday. Marm Huspeth'll  watch
the babe-"

    "The baby stays with me," the woman informed him coldly,  hitching
up the straps of the bundle on her back. "I'll carry him in this while
I work, to leave my hands free."

    The overseer shook  his head.  "I expect  a full  day's work  from
you-"

    "You'll get it, "the woman interrupted, drawing herself up to  her
full height, "Do I start now?

    Looking at her wan, pale face, the overseer shifted uncomfortably,
"Naw," he  said  gruffly, "Get  yourself  and the  babe  settled.  The
cottage there at the end,  near the trees, is  vacant. At least go  to
Marm, She'll fix you some food-"

    "I don't take handouts," the woman said and started to leave.

    "Hey, what's yer name?" asked the overseer.

    Stopping, the woman glanced back over her shoulder. "Anja."

    "And the babe?"

    "Joram."

    "Has he been Tested and blessed in accordance with the laws of the
Church?" asked the catalyst sternly, determined to try to salvage some
of his  lost dignity.  But the  attempt failed.  Spinning around,  the
woman faced  him directly  for the  first time,  and the  look in  her
glittering eyes  was so  strange, so  mocking, and  so wild  that  the
catalyst involuntarily fell back a step before her.

    "Oh, yes," Anja whispered.  "He has been  through the ceremony  of
the Testing and  he has  received the  Church's blessing,  you may  be
sure!"

    With that, she began to laugh such eerie, shrill laughter that the
catalyst flashed  the overseer  a  look of  smug satisfaction.  If  it
hadn't been  for that  look,  the overseer  might have  rescinded  his
decision and sent the woman  on her way. He,  too, heard the tinge  of
madness in that laughter. But he'd be damned before he'd back down  in
front of this weak-eyed, bald little  man who'd been an irritant  ever
since he'd arrived a month ago.

    "What are you all staring at,"  he shouted to the Field Magi,  who
had been watching  the proceedings with  interest, eager for  anything
that relieved the daily boredom and drudgery of their lives. "Rest  is
over. Back to work.  Father Tolban, grant them  Life," he said to  the
catalyst, who, with the self-conscious air of one who has been  proven
right, sniffed and began to chant the ritual.

    Flashing a triumphant grin at the overseer, as if they shared some
joke known only to the two of  them, the woman turned and trudged  off
toward the wretched little shack that stood far apart from the  others
of the settlement, her fine green gown dragging in the dirt,  catching
on brambles, snagging in hushes.

    The overseer was to come to know that dress well. Six years later,
Anja still wore its tattered remnants.

    8

    The Borderlands Joram knew he was different from the others in the
settlement. It was something it seemed he had always known, just as he
knew his name or his  mother's name or her  touch. But the reason  for
this difference puzzled the six-year-old.

    "Why won't you  let me play  with the children?"  Joram would  ask
during the  evenings when  he was  allowed outside  their dwelling  to
exercise by himself under Anja's strict supervision.

    "Because you are different," Anja would reply coldly.

    Or, "Why  must I  learn  to read?"  Joram  would ask.  "The  other
children don't have to."

    "Because you are  different from the  other children," Anja  would
answer him.

    Different. Different. Different. The word loomed large in  Joram's
mind, like the words Anja made  him copy laboriously on his slate.  It
was because of The Difference that he was kept sealed inside the shack
where they lived whenever Anja went  to the fields. It was because  of
The Difference that he and Anja kept apart from the other Field  Magi,
never joining  in their  small holidays  or the  brief eventide  talks
before the early bedtime.

    "Why am I different?" Joram asked petulantly one day, watching the
other children  playing  in the  dirt  street.  "I don't  want  to  be
different."

    "May the Almin  forgive you  your foolish  tongue," Anja  snapped,
casting the children outside  a look of scorn,  "You are as far  above
those as the moon is above this wretched ground we trod."

    Joram glanced up above  into the evening sky  where the pale  moon
hung in the darkness, aloof from the world and the dim, twilight stars
around it.

    "But the moon is cold and alone, Anja," Joram observed.

    "All the better for it, child. There is nothing that can hurt it!"
Anja responded. Kneeling down beside her son, she took him in her arms
and hugged him fiercely. "Be alone like the moon and there is  nothing
that can hurt you!"

    Well, that was  a reason,  certainly, but  it wasn't  a very  good
reason, Joram thought. He had a great deal of time to think, being  by
himself all day.  So he kept  his eyes  and ears open,  spying on  his
mother, searching for The Difference.  Once, he thought he might  have
found it.

    "What do you want, Catalyst?" Anja demanded ungraciously, flinging
open the door at the sound of a knock one morning before work began.

    Father Tolban attempted to keep a smile upon his lips, but it  was
a strained,  tight-lipped smile.  "Sun arise,  Anja. May  the  Almin's
blessing be with you this day."

    "If it is, it  will be without your  help," Anja retorted. "I  ask
again, Catalyst,  what  do you  want?  Be quick.  I  must get  to  the
fields."

    "I came to discuss-" the catalyst began formally but, starting  to
wilt beneath Anja's icy gaze, he lost his carefully planned  statement
and stammered in a rush. "How old is your-is Joram?"

    Still asleep in  the half-light of  dawn, the boy  lay huddled  in
patched blankets on a  cot in the corner.  "He is six," Anja  answered
defiantly, as though daring Father Tolban to challenge her.

    The catalyst nodded and tried to regain his composure. "Just  so,"
he said with  an attempt  at pleasantry. "That  is the  age he  should
begin his education.  I meet  with the children  during Highhour,  you
know. Let me... That is..."

    His voice  trailed  off,  his  smile and  his  words  both  slowly
withering in the chill of Anja's sardonic sneer.

    "I'll see to  his education,  not you,  Catalyst! He  is of  noble
blood, after all," she added angrily, as Father Tolban seemed about to
protest, "He will be educated as befits one of noble blood, not as one
of your ham-fisted peasants!"

    With that, she  brushed past  him, sealing  shut the  door to  the
shack. Made of  tree branches,  the door, like  all the  doors in  the
village, was originally designed in the shape of welcoming hands.  But
the unkempt, untrimmed branches of Anja's door made it look more  like
grasping, skeletal  claws. Giving  the  catalyst a  final,  suspicious
glance, Anja surrounded the shack with the magical aura of  protection
that left her so drained of energy each morning she was forced to walk
to the fields-instead of float, as did the other magi.

    Inside, Joram raised  his head from  the blankets cautiously.  The
catalyst had  not left  yet. He  could hear  the man  shuffling  about
outside, then other footsteps approaching.

    "You heard?" Father Tolban asked bitterly.

    "Best leave her be," advised the overseer. "And the kid, too."

    "But he should be educated..."

    "Bah!" The  overseer  snorted.  "So  the  brat  doesn't  know  his
catechism? As long as  he's ready for the  fields when he's eight,  it
doesn't matter to me whether or not he can recite the Nine Mysteries."

    "If you could speak to her..."

    "Her? I'd sooner speak to a centaur. You want the kid, you  snatch
him from her claws."

    "Perhaps you're right, " Father Tolban muttered hastily. "I  don't
suppose it matters much after all..."

    The two walked away.

    So that was part of The  Difference, Joram thought. I am of  noble
blood, whatever that means.

    But there was something else. There had to be. For, as Joram  grew
older, he began to  realize that this Difference  kept him apart  from
everyone-including his mother. He  could see it  sometimes in the  way
she looked  at him  when  he performed  some  ordinary task,  such  as
lifting an object in his hands or  walking across the floor. He saw  a
fear in her eyes-a  fear that made him  afraid, too, though he  didn't
know why. And  whenever he  started to ask,  she looked  away and  was
suddenly very busy.

    One  difference  between   Joram  and  the   other  children   was
obvious-the fact that he walked. Though he had his assigned tasks  and
studies to perform during the long  day of isolation in the shack,  he
often spent much of that day  at the window, staring enviously at  the
play of  the other  children in  the village.  Every noon,  under  the
watchful eye of Father Tolban, they  floated and tumbled about in  the
air, playing with any  object their fancy  imagined and their  limited
skills as  growing magi  allowed  them to  create. Joram  longed  most
desperately to be able  to float, not  to be forced  to walk upon  the
ground like the lowest rank of the  Field Magi or that most stupid  of
creatures according to his mother-a catalyst.

    "How do I know  I can't?" it occurred  to the six-year-old to  ask
himself one day. "I've never really tried."

    Leaving the window, the boy looked around the shack. Formed from a
dead free that had been magically shaped and hollowed out, the  tree's
branches had been skillfully  laced and twined to  form a crude  roof.
High above Joram,  a single branch  of the natural  tree extended  the
length of the ceiling. Working industriously, Joram dragged the  crude
worktable, formed of a  stump, beneath the beam.  Then he lifted up  a
chair onto the table and, climbing on it, looked up. Not high  enough.
Frustrated, he glanced about and spotted the potato bin in the corner.
Clambering down,  he  dumped  out  the  potatoes,  hoisted  the  huge,
hollowed-out gourd,  and, after  a great  deal of  effort, managed  to
position it on top of the chair.

    Now he  could reach  the  beam, just  barely. The  gourd  wobbling
beneath his feet, Joram touched the beam with his fingertips and, with
a jump that sent the gourd tumbling off the table, caught hold of  the
branch and pulled himself  up onto it. Looking  down, he saw that  the
floor was a long way beneath him.

    "But that  doesn't matter,"  he said  confidently. "I'm  going  to
float like the others," Drawing in  a breath, Joram was just about  to
leap out into the air when  suddenly the magical seal was broken,  the
door flew open, and his mother entered.

    Anja's startled gaze traveled from the  table to the chair to  the
gourd on the floor and, finally, to Joram, perched on the beam of  the
ceiling, staring at  her with  his dark eyes,  his pale  face a  cold,
blank mask.  Instantly,  Anja  sprang  into the  air.  Flying  to  the
ceiling, she snatched up the child in her arms.

    "What do you  think you  are doing,  my little  love?" Anja  asked
feverishly, clutching Joram to her as they drifted down to the floor.

    "I want to float, like them," Joram replied, pointing outside  and
squirming to escape his mother's pinching grasp.

    Setting her  son  down, Anja  glanced  over her  shoulder  at  the
peasant children and her lip curled.

    "Never again  disgrace me  or yourself  with such  thoughts!"  she
said, attempting to sound stern. But her voice wavered, her eyes  went
to the  crude  device Joram  had  put  together to  gain  his  object.
Shuddering, she put  her hand  over her mouth;  then, with  a look  of
revulsion, she hurriedly grabbed down the chair, flinging it into  the
corner. She turned  to face  Joram, her  face deathly  pale, words  of
reprimand on her lips.

    But she couldn't say them. In Joram's eyes, she saw the  question,
framed and ready to ask.

    And she was not prepared to answer it.

    Without a word, Anja turned on her heel and left the shack.

    Joram did, of course,  attempt the leap from  the roof, daring  it
during harvest time when he was  certain his mother would be too  busy
to return  to  lunch,  as she  had  taken  to doing  now  more  often.
Balancing on the very edge of the beam, the child jumped, willing with
all the strength of his small being that he hang suspended in the cool
fall air like the griffins, and then drift to the ground, lightly as a
windblown leaf...

    He landed, not like a windblown leaf, but like a rock hurled  down
the face  of a  mountain.  The fall  hurt  the boy  severely.  Picking
himself up, he felt a sharp pain in his side when he drew a breath.

    "What is the matter  with my pet?" Anja  asked him playfully  that
evening. "You are very quiet."

    "I jumped off the roof," Joram answered, looking at her  steadily.
"I was trying to float like the others."

    Anja scowled, and again opened her mouth to reprimand the boy. But
she saw, once again, the question in the boy's eyes.

    "And what happened?" she asked gruffly, her hands plucking at  the
tattered remnants of her green dress.

    "I fell," Joram answered his mother, who wasn't looking at him. "I
hurt myself, right here." He pressed his hand against his side.

    Anja shrugged. "I hope you have learned your lesson," she remarked
coldly, You are not like the others. You are different. And  everytime
you try to be  like the others,  you will hurt  yourself or they  will
hurt you."

    She is right. I'm not like  the others, Joram knew that, now.  But
why? What was the reason?

    That winter, the winter when he was six, Joram thought again  that
he might have discovered the answer.

    Joram was a  beautiful child. Even  the hardbitten overseer  could
not help but  pause in  his daily  grind to  turn and  stare on  those
occasions when the boy was allowed outside the shack. From being  kept
constantly indoors during the day,  Joram's skin was smooth and  white
and as  translucent as  marble. His  eyes were  large and  expressive,
surrounded by  thick black  eyelashes so  long that  they brushed  his
cheeks. His eyebrows were black and set low on his head, giving him  a
brooding, serious  adult air  that accorded  oddly with  his  childish
face.

    But Joram's  most  outstanding feature  was  his hair.  Thick  and
luxuriant, black as  the glistening  plumage of the  raven, it  sprang
from a sharp peak in  the center of his  forehead to fall down  around
his shoulders in a mass of tangled curls.

    Unfortunately, this lovely hair was the bane of Joram's childhood.
Anja refused to cut  it, and it  was now so thick  and long that  only
hours of painful combing and tugging  on Anja's part could remove  the
snarls and tangles. She tried braiding it, but the hair was so  unruly
that it sprang out of the braid almost within minutes, curling  around
the child's face and  bouncing on his shoulders  as if possessed of  a
life of its own.

    Anja was extremely  proud of  her son's beauty.  Keeping his  hair
clean and well-groomed  was her great  pleasure-her only pleasure,  in
fact, since she haughtily held  herself apart from her neighbors.  The
combing of  Joram's  hair developed  into  a nightly  ritual-a  dismal
ritual for Joram.  Every evening,  after their meager  supper and  his
brief exercise period, the  boy sat on a  stool at the crudely  shaped
wooden table  while Anja,  with her  magic and  her fingers,  lovingly
combed out the child's wild,. shining hair.

    One night, Joram rebelled.

    Sitting home alone  that day  as usual,  he had  watched from  his
window as the other little boys played together, floating and tumbling
through the  air, chasing  after a  shimmering ball  of crystal  their
leader, a bright-eyed  young lad  named Mosiah, had  conjured up.  The
rough game came to a halt with the return of several parents from  the
fields. The children  crowded around their  parents, clinging to  them
and hugging them in a way that made Joram feel dark and empty  inside.
Though Anja constantly fussed over him  and hugged him, it was with  a
fierce kind of intensity that was more frightening than  affectionate.
Joram sometimes felt as if she wanted  to crush him into her body  and
make them one.

    "Mosiah," called out the  boy's father, catching  hold of his  son
who, after  a quick  greeting, was  heading back  to his  play.  "Y'er
lookin' like a young lion," the  father said, ruffling his son's  hair
that fell in long blond lanks over the boy's eyes. Drawing the child's
hair between his  fingers, the  father gently  sheared it  off with  a
quick, deft motion of his hand.

    That night, when Anja called Joram to the stool and began to  take
down what remained of the braids  in his hair, Joram jerked away  from
his mother and turned to face her, his dark eyes wide and solemn.

    "If I had a  father like other boys,"  he said quietly, "he  would
cut my hair. If I had a  father, I wouldn't be different. He  wouldn't
let you make me different!"

    Without saying a word, Anja struck Joram across the face.

    The blow knocked the  child to the floor  and left a bruised  mark
upon his cheek for days thereafter. What followed left a bruised  mark
on Joram's heart that never truly healed.

    Hurt, angry, and alarmed by the look on his mother's face-for Anja
had gone deathly white and her  eyes burned with an inner  fever-Joram
began to cry.

    "Stop it!" Anja  dragged her  son to his  feet, her  thin-fingered
hand  digging  painfully  into  his  arm.  "Stop  it!"  she  whispered
fiercely. "Why do you cry?"

    "Because you hurt me!" Joram muttered accusingly. His hand holding
his stinging cheek, he stared at her in sullen defiance.

    "I hurt you!"  Anja sneered.  "The slap of  a hand  and the  child
cries. Come"-she hauled the boy through the door of the shack and  out
into the mean little village, whose people were settling down to  rest
after their hard day's labors-"come, Joram,  I will teach you what  it
is to hurt!"

    Walking so fast  that she  literally dragged  the stumbling  child
through the muddy street behind her  (Anja always walked when she  was
with Joram-an odd circumstance that the other magi noted and  wondered
at), Anja  came to  the catalyst's  dwelling  at the  far end  of  the
village. Using her magic stored from  the day's work, Anja caused  the
door to  burst wide  open.  She and  her  child burst  through  after,
propelled by the heat of her fury.

    "Anja? What's the  matter?" cried Father  Tolban, springing up  in
alarm from  where he  had  been resting  before  a cheery  fire.  Marm
Hudspeth bent over the  flames, cooking his  dinner, this task  taking
more Life than a  catalyst has. The sausages  hung suspended over  the
fire, spitting and cackling very much like the old woman herself,  who
was preparing gruel in a sphere of magic bubbling on the hearth,  "Get
out!" Anja  ordered the  old woman,  never taking  her eyes  from  the
astonished catalyst.

    "You-you had better go along, Marm," Father Tolban said gently. He
would have liked  to add, "and  bring the overseer  at once!" but  the
sight of Anja's  glittering eyes and  mottled face made  him bite  his
tongue. Clucking and muttering, Marm sent the sausages from the  flame
to the table, then-staring at Anja and the boy with narrowed  eyes-she
flew out the door, making the sign against evil with her hand.

    Her lip curled in derision, Anja  slammed the door shut and  stood
facing the  catalyst. He  had not  been  to visit  her since  she  had
stopped him  from educating  Joram.  She never  spoke  to him  in  the
fields, if she could help it. So  he was astounded to find her in  his
house, and even more  astonished to see her  child with her. "What  is
the matter, Anja?" he repeated. "Are you or the child ill?"

    "Open the  Corridors  to us,  Catalyst,"  Anja demanded  with  the
superior air  she  used  when  speaking to  underlings,  an  air  that
contrasted oddly with her shabby,  patched dress and her  dirt-smeared
face. "The boy and I must make a journey."

    "Now? But...  but..." Father  Tolban  stammered, completely  at  a
loss. This was unheard of! It could not be allowed. The woman had gone
mad! And that brought  another thought to the  catalyst. He was  alone
and unprotected  in  the presence  of  a wizardess,  Albanara  if  one
believed her story, whose Life force he could feel radiating from  her
like the heat of her anger.

    She had probably saved up energy from the days work. She  wouldn't
have much, but it  might be enough  to mutate him  or wreck his  small
house. What should he do? Stall for time. Perhaps Old Marm would  have
brains enough to  go fetch the  overseer. Trying to  remain calm,  the
catalyst's gaze went from  the mother to the  child, who stood  beside
her silently, half-hidden by the folds of Anja's rich, tattered dress.

    Even in the midst  of his fear and  mental turmoil, Father  Tolban
stopped and stared. He had never seen the child up close, Anja  always
keeping them separated. And, though he had heard rumors of the child's
beauty, the  catalyst was  certainly not  prepared for  anything  like
this. Blue-black hair  framed a pale  face with large  dark eyes.  But
what was remarkable, besides the child's extraordinary beauty, was the
fact that there was no fear in those wide, shimmering eyes. There  was
the shadow of  pain-the catalyst could  see the marks  of Anja's  hand
upon the child's cheek. There were  traces of tears. But there was  no
fear, only a look of calm triumph,  as if this had all been  carefully
planned and arranged.

    "Immediately, Catalyst," Anja hissed, stamping her bare foot  upon
the floor. "I am not accustomed to being kept waiting by the likes  of
you!"

    "P-payment," stuttered Father  Tolban. Tearing his  gaze from  the
strange child, he turned to face the wild-eyed mother, feeling  relief
flood over him as he ducked into  the safe refuge of the rules of  his
Order. "Th-there  must  be  payment,  you  know,"  he  continued  more
severely, gaining confidence as the  rules loaned him the strength  of
centuries. "A portion of your Life, Mistress Anja, and also a  portion
of the boy's, if you travel with him..."

    The catalyst had expected this to stop the woman-what Field Magus,
after all, had enough magic  left at the end of  the day to grant  the
necessaty portion  demanded by  the  catalysts for  the use  of  their
Corridors?

    And it did stop Anja, but only  for a time, and then not in  quite
the manner Tolban had intended.

    At the mention of the boy, she  glanced down at the child in  some
perplexity, as if she had forgotten his existence. Then, scowling, she
turned back to the catalyst, who was folding his arms across his chest
and preparing to consider the matter closed.

    "I will pay  you parasites what  you need to  live!" she  snapped.
"But take nothing from  the boy. I  will pay you  his portion from  my
Life as well. Come. I have sufficient! Take my hand!"

    Anja stretched out her hand to the catalyst, whose confidence  was
oozing from him tike  sap from a wounded  tree. Blankly, he stared  at
her and, for an  instant, he did  not see her  dirty face or  half-mad
eyes, he did  not see the  ragged dress  or the sun-browned  skm of  a
Field Magus. He saw a tall and lovely woman, regally dressed, who  had
been born to  command and to  have her orders  obeyed. Without  really
knowing what he was doing, the catalyst took hold of the woman's  hand
and felt Life  surge into him  with such force  it nearly knocked  him
down.

    "Wh-where would you go?" he asked weakly.

    "The Borderlands."

    "The Borderlands?" His mouth  gaped in astonishment, Anja's  brows
came together in alarming fashion.

    Father Tolban gulped. Then he  frowned, trying to recover some  of
his dignity.  "I  must leave  the  Corridor open,  to  guarantee  your
return," he said sourly.

    Anja snorted. "Leave  the Corridor open,  then," she snapped.  "It
matters little to me. We  will be gone only  moments. Now get on  with
it!"

    "Very well," the catalyst muttered.

    Using Anja's  Life, the  catalyst opened  the window  in time  and
space to her,  one of  the many  Corridors created  originally by  the
Diviners, the Time  Magi. The  Diviners had long  since vanished,  and
with them had died  the knowledge of how  to build the Corridors,  But
the catalysts, who had controlled  them for centuries, knew still  how
to operate and  maintain them,  taking the  Life needed  to keep  them
active from those who used them.

    Stepping into  the window  that  appeared as  a dark  void  within
Father Tolban's cozy  living quarters,  Anja and  the child  vanished.
Glancing at the open Corridor apprehensively, the catalyst  discovered
himself toying briefly with  the idea of closing  it and leaving  them
stranded on the other side. He  came to himself with a start,  shocked
at what he had been contemplating.

    The Borderland, he thought, shaking his head. How strange. Why  go
there, to that desolate, life-forsaken region?

    There are no guards at the Borderlands. None are needed.

    To pass from the world into  those drifting, floating mists is  to
step Beyond. To step Beyond is to die.

    As for  guarding the  realm from  what lies  Beyond, there  is  no
reason to do so. For nothing lies Beyond, nothing except the realm  of
Death. And from that realm, no one has ever returned.

    The first line of the catechism  states, "We fled the world  where
Death reigned, taking with us the  magic and those creatures of  magic
we had created.  We chose  this world because  it is  empty. Here  the
magic will live, since there is nothing and no one to threaten us ever
again. Here, on this world, is Life."

    There are no guards, but there are the Watchers.

    Stepping hesitantly  into the  Corridor,  his hand  clutching  his
mother's, Joram experienced an instant's sensation of being  squeezed,
very tightly. Lovely, sparkling stars burst in his vision. But  before
his  mind  could  quite  truly  register  what  was  transpiring,  the
sensation ended, the sparkling light faded, and he looked around  him,
expecting to  see the  catalyst's small  room. But  he wasn't  in  the
catalyst's house. He was standing on  a long, barren stretch of  white
beach.

    The child had never seen anything like this before and was pleased
by the feeling of the sun-warmed sand beneath his feet. Reaching down,
he started to pick up a handful, but Anja jerked him roughly  forward,
striding across the  beach with  long steps, pulling  the child  after
her.

    At first, Joram enjoyed walking in the sand. That ended very soon,
however, as the sand grew deeper and walking became more difficult. He
began to sink in the shifting dunes, and when he tried to move  ahead,
they slid away beneath his feet, causing him to flounder and stumble.

    "Where are we?" he asked, panting for breath.

    "We stand on  the edge of  the world," Anja  replied, stopping  to
wipe the sweat from her face and gain her bearings.

    Glad to rest, Joram looked around.

    Anja was right. Behind him  was the world-the white sand  yielding
to sparse green grasses that in turn yielded to the lush green fields.
Tall, darker green forests carried the  life of the world upward  into
the purple of the  mountains, whose snow-capped  peaks lifted it  into
the clear blue sky. And the sky seemed, to Joram's gaze, to leap  from
the mountains, soaring in a vast, serene expanse above him.  Following
its curve, he turned and looked ahead of him to where the sky fell  at
last into the misty void beyond the white sand.

    And then he saw the Watchers.

    Startled, he clutched at Anja's hand and pointed.

    "Yes," was all she said. But the pain and anger in her answer made
the child shiver  in the waning  sunlight, though the  heat of  midday
radiated still from the sand beneath his feet.

    Gripping  Joram's  hand  firmly,  Anja  tugged  him  forward,  her
tattered gown dragging behind, leaving  a snakelike trail through  the
dunes.

    Thirty feet  tall, the  stone  statues of  the Watchers  line  the
Borderlands, staring eternally out into the mists of Beyond. Spaced at
twenty-foot intervals,  the stone  statues stand  on the  edge of  the
white sand for as far as the eye can see.

    Joram gaped in  wonder as he  approached them. He  had never  seen
anything so tall! Even the trees in the forest did not tower above him
like these giant  statues. Coming  up on  them from  behind, Joram  at
first thought they  were all alike.  The statues were  all figures  of
humans dressed in robes.  Though some appeared to  be male and  others
female, there  seemed no  other  difference. Each  stood in  the  same
position, arms  hanging  straight down  from  his or  her  side,  feet
together, heads facing forward.

    Then, as  Joram  drew  nearer,  he noticed  that  one  statue  was
different. On one statue, the left  hand, which should have been  open
like the others, was closed, clenched into a fist.

    Joram  turned  to  Anja,  bursting  with  questions  about   these
wonderful statues. But when he saw her face, he stopped the words upon
his lips so swiftly that he bit his tongue. Swallowing his  questions,
he tasted blood.

    Anja's face was  whiter, her eyes  hotter than the  hot sand  upon
which they  walked. Her  wild,  fevered gaze  fixed  upon one  of  the
statues-the one whose hand was clenched. Toward that statue, she moved
resolutely, floundering and falling in the shifting sand.

    Then  Joram  knew.  With  the  sudden,  uncanny  clairvoyance   of
childhood, Joram  understood,  though he  could  not have  framed  his
knowledge in words. A sickening fear  swept over him, making him  weak
and dizzy. Terrified, he  tried to pull away  from Anja, but she  only
held  his  hand  more  tightly.  Desperately,  shrieking  words   that
Anja-from the lost,  preoccupied look on  her face-never heard,  Joram
dug his heels into the sand.

    "Please! Anja! Take me home! No, I don't want to see-"

    He fell down, dragging Anja off-balance. Stumbling, she landed  on
her hands and knees,  and was forced  to let loose  of Joram to  catch
herself. Scrambling to  his feet,  the child  tried to  run, but  Anja
lunged forward  and  caught hold  of  him  by the  hair,  yanking  him
backward.

    "No!" Joram shrieked frantically, sobbing in pain and fear.

    Grasping him around  the waist  with a  strength her  work in  the
fields had given her, Anja lifted the child and carried him across the
sand, falling  more than  once,  but never  deterring from  her  fixed
purpose.

    Coming to stand before the  statue, Anja stopped. Her breath  came
in ragged gasps. For  a moment, she stared  up at the statue  towering
above them.

    Its left hand clenched,  its fixed gaze  looking over their  heads
into the mists Beyond,  it had-to all  appearances-less Life than  the
trees in the forests. Yet it  was aware of their presence. Joram  felt
its awareness, as he felt its terrible, tortured pain.

    Exhausted, he ceased to  cry out or struggle.  Anja dumped him  at
the statue's stone feet, where he crouched, quivering, his head in his
hands.

    "Joram," Anja said, "this is your father."

    The boy squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unable to move or speak or
do anything except  lie upon  the warm  sand beneath  the giant  stone
statue.

    But a splash of water upon his neck made Joram start. Raising  his
head from where it had been pressed into the sand, the child looked up
slowly. Far above him,  he could see the  statue's stone eyes  staring
straight ahead into  the realm of  Death whose sweet  peace must  ever
elude him. Another splash of water struck the boy. With a  heartbroken
sob, Joram buried his face in his small hands.

    While far above him, the statue, too, wept.

    9

    The Ritual "I  was the daughter  of one of  the noblest houses  in
Merilon. He-your father-was House Catalyst."

    Sitting at the table, once more in their shack, Joram heard Anja's
voice coming to him from somewhere above him, trickling down through a
haze of fear and horror like the tears of the statue.

    "I was the daughter of one of the noblest houses in Merilon,"  she
repeated, combing out Joram's hair.  "Your father was House  Catalyst.
He, too, came  of noble blood.  My father refused  to have a  catalyst
living with us  like Father  Tolban-little better than  a Field  Magus
himself. I was sixteen, your father was just turned thirty."

    She sighed, and the fingers that tugged and pulled at the  tangles
in Joram's hair  grew lingering  and caressing. Glancing  at her  face
reflected in the  glass of the  windows opposite where  he sat at  the
wooden table,  Joram saw  his mother  smile a  half-smile and  sway  a
little to some unheard music. Raising her hand, she patted her filthy,
matted hair. "What beautiful  things we created, he  and I," she  said
softly, smiling dreamily. "I was gifted  with Life, Mama used to  tell
me. Of an evening, to please and entertain my family, your father  and
I would fill the twilight with  rainbows and phantasms of wonder  that
brought tears  to the  eyes of  those  who beheld  them. It  was  only
natural, your  father said,  that we,  who could  create such  beauty,
should fall in love."

    The fingers in his  hair tightened, the sharp  nails dug into  his
flesh, and Joram felt the sticky liquid of his own blood trickle  down
his neck.

    "We went to the catalysts for permission to marry. They  performed
a Vision. The  answer was no.  They said we  would not produce  living
issue!"

    Tearing at the tangled mass of black hair, she ripped at the knots
with her talonlike nails. Clutching  at the table, Joram welcomed  the
pain of his flesh that masked the pain of his soul.

    "Living Issue! Hah! They lied! You see!" Grasping Joram around the
neck, Anja hugged him in fierce, greedy passion. "You are with me,  my
sweet one. You are my proof that they are liars!"

    Pressing his  head against  her breast,  she rocked  him back  and
forth, crooning "liars" to herself and to him as she smoothed out  the
silken curls of his hair.

    "Yes, heart's delight, I have you," Anja murmured, stopping in her
combing for a moment to stare fixedly into the fire. Her hands dropped
to her lap. "I have you. They could not stop us. No, even though  they
ordered your father to  leave our house and  return to the  Cathedral,
they could not keep us apart. He came back to me that night, the night
after their foul Vision. We met in secret, in the garden where we  had
given life to such beautiful creations.

    "He had a plan. We would produce  a living child and prove to  the
world that the catalysts  were lying. They would  be forced to let  us
marry then, don't you see?

    "We needed a catalyst to perform the ceremony that would create  a
child in my womb. But we  could find none. Cowards! Those he  ventured
to approach refused,  fearing the  wrath of  the Bishop  if they  were
discovered, "And then came  word, he was being  sent to the fields,  a
Field Catalyst!"  Anja  snorted.  "Him!  Whose  soul  was  beauty  and
fineness, to be  sent to a  life of drudgery  and toil. Little  better
than the peasants who are born to it. And it meant we would never  see
each other again, for once you have trudged in the mud of the  fields,
you may never walk the enchanted streets of Merilon.

    "We were desperate. Then, one night, he told me that he knew of  a
way-an ancient, forbidden way-that we could use to produce a child."

    Anja's hands twisted. She sank down  upon a stool, her eyes  still
staring into  the fire.  Joram  could not  look  at her,  his  stomach
clenched with anger  and a  strange, almost  pleasurable sensation  of
pain he did not understand. Instead,  he stared out the window at  the
calm, lonely moon.

    "He described the  ancient way  to me,"  she said  softly. "I  was
sickened. It was... bestial. How could I do it? How could he? Yet, how
could we not? For if he left me, I would die. We sneaked off..."

    Anja'a voice dropped to where Joram could just barely hear her.

    "I remember little  of the  night you were  conceived. He...  your
father... gave me a drink made  of some bright red flower... It  seems
to me that my soul left my body,  leaving the body for him to do  with
it as he  would. As if  in a  dream... I remember  his hands  touching
me... I remember an awful, searing pain. I remember... a sweetness...

    "But we  were  betrayed.  The  catalysts  had  been  trailing  us,
watching us. I heard him cry out,  then I awoke with a scream to  find
them standing over us, staring down at us in our shame. They took  him
away, to the Font for  his trial. I was taken  to the Font, too.  They
have a place  there, where they  keep 'women like  me' so they  said."
Anja smiled bitterly at the fire. "There are more of us than you might
suppose, my pet. I looked for him, but the Font is a huge place,  huge
and terrible. The next time I saw him was at the Punishment.

    "You, my sweet, were heavy in my womb when they dragged me to  the
Borderlands and forced  me to stand  in the sand,  the white,  burning
sand. Forced me to  stand there and watch  them perform their  heinous
act!"

    Snarling, Anja twisted to her feet. Coming to stand before  Joram,
she dug her nails into his shoulder. "Magi who have broken the law are
sent Beyond!" she  whispered fiercely. "That  is their punishment  for
wrongdoing in this  world. 'The Living  shall not be  put to Death,  '
thus  the  catechism  says.  A   magus  walks  out  into  mist,   into
nothingness, and  so perishes!  Pah!" She  spit into  the fire.  "What
punishment is that compared to  being turned to living stone?  Wearing
out the ageless days of your  existence, gnawed at always by wind  and
water and the memories of what it was to be alive!"

    Anja stared into the night with  eyes that might have been  stone,
for all they saw. Joram stared at the moon.

    "They stood him  in the place  they had marked  upon the sand.  He
wore the robes of  shame, and two Enforcers  held him fast with  their
dark enchantment, so that  he could not move.  Most catalysts, I  have
heard, accept their fate  quietly. Some even  welcome it, having  been
convinced of the enormity of their  sins. But not your father. We  had
done nothing wrong." Her nails dug deeper into Joram's flesh. "We  had
only loved!"

    Breathing heavily, she could not  speak for long minutes,  forcing
herself to witness  that terrible moment  once again, reveling-for  an
instant-in her pain and reveling in the knowledge that she was sharing
this pain with the boy.

    "To the last," she continued in  a low, husky voice, "your  father
shouted his defiance. They tried to ignore him, but I saw their faces.
His words hit home. Furious, Bishop Vanya-may the ground upon which he
walks writhe with scorpions-ordered the transmutation to begin.

    "Twenty-five catalysts are needed to perform such a change.  Vanya
had brought  them  from  all  parts  of  Thimhallan,  to  witness  the
punishment for our great crime-the sin of loving!

    "They formed a circle  around your father  and, into that  circle,
walked the catalyst's own Duuk-tsarith warlock who works for them  and
who, in return, is  granted as much  Life as he  needs to perform  his
foul duties. At  his coming,  the two lower-rank  Enforcers bowed  and
left, leaving your father  alone in the circle  with the one known  as
the Executioner. The warlock made  a sign. The catalysts clasped  hold
of hands.  Each  opened  a  conduit to  the  Executioner,  giving  him
unbelievable power.

    "He took his time. The punishment is slow and painful.

    "Moving his hand, the Executioner pointed at your father's feet. I
could not see his limbs  beneath his long robes,  but I knew from  the
expression on your father's face when he first felt the  transmutation
begin. His feet turned to stone. Slowly, the icy coldness moved up his
legs, then his loins, his stomach, chest and arms. Still he yelled  at
them until his stomach froze. Even when his voice ceased, I could  see
his lips move. At the last  moment, with his last effort, he  clenched
his fist just as it  turned to stone. They  could have altered it,  of
course. But they chose  to let that sign  of his last bitter  defiance
remain as a warning to others."

    Yes, thought Joram, reaching up and clasping his mother's hands in
his own,  they left  the look  upon  his face  as well-a  monument  to
hatred, bitterness, and anger.

    Anja's voice dropped. "I watched  him draw his final breath.  Then
he could breathe  no more-as  normal man. But  the breath  of life  is
within  him  still.  That  is  the  most  excruciating  part  of  this
punishment that these fiends have devised. Think of him when  anything
hurts you, my sweet one. Think of him when you are tempted to cry, and
you will know  your tears to  be petty and  shameful compared to  his.
Think of him, who is dead but alive."

    Joram thought of him.

    He thought of his father every night, as Anja told the story while
she combed his hair, and  every night when he  went to bed, the  words
"Dead but alive" reached out to  him from the darkness. He thought  of
him every night from  then on, because Anja  told him the story  again
and again, night after night, as she combed the tangles from his  hair
with her fingers.

    As some use wine to ease the pains of living, so Anja's words were
the bitter wine that she and Joram drank. Only this wine did not  ease
pain. Born of madness, it gave birth to pain itself. For at last Joram
understood The Difference,  or thought he  did. Now at  last he  could
understand his mother's pain and hatred and share in it.

    During the day, he still watched the other children at their play,
but  now  his  look  was  not  envious.  Like  his  mother's,  it  was
contemptuous. Joram began to play a game of his own, sitting day after
day in the silent hovel. He was the moon, hanging in the dark heavens,
stating down at the buglike mortals below, who sometimes looked up  at
him in his cold and shining majesty, but who could not touch him.

    Thus he spent his days. And  every night, as she combed his  hair,
Anja recited her tale.

    From that time on, if Joram cried, no one ever saw his tears.

    10

    The Game Joram  was seven  when the dark  and secret  part of  his
education began.

    One evening after dinner, Anja reached  out her hands and ran  her
fingers through Joram's  thick, tangled hair.  Joram tensed; this  was
always the beginning of  the stories, a time  that he confusedly  both
longed for and dreaded every hour of  his lonely day. But she did  not
begin to comb out  his hair as  usual. Puzzled, the  boy looked up  at
her.

    Anja was staring at him,  fondling his hair absently. She  studied
his face, moving her hand to caress his cheek. All the while he  could
see that she was turning something over in her mind, fingering an idea
as one  of the  Pron-alban  fingers a  gem to  see  if it  is  flawed.
Finally, her lips tightened in resolution.

    Gripping Joram by the arm, she  pulled him down to sit beside  her
on the floor.

    "What is it, Anja?" he asked uneasily. "What are we doing?  Aren't
you going to tell me about my father?"

    "Later," said Anja firmly. "Now, we are going to play a game."

    Joram looked at his  mother in wary amazement.  Never in her  life
had Anja played at anything, and he had a feeling she was not going to
begin now. Anja  tried to smile  at the boy  reassuringly, but  Anja's
strange, wild-eyed grins  only increased Joram's  nervousness. Yet  he
watched her with a kind of  hungry eagerness. Whatever she did  seemed
to hurt him, but-like a man who cannot help running his tongue over an
aching tooth-Joram could not seem  to help touching his aching  heart,
feeling a certain grim satisfaction in knowing that the pain was still
there.

    Anja reached into a  pouch that hung from  a strip of leather  she
wore round her waist and drew  out a small, smooth stone. Tossing  the
stone into the air, she used her magic to cause the air to swallow  it
up. As the stone disappeared, Anja looked at Joram with an  expression
of triumph  that the  boy found  quite perplexing.  There was  nothing
marvelous in the stone's  disappearance. Such feats were  commonplace,
even in the lowly  world of the  Field Magus. Now,  if she would  only
show him some of  the marvels she had  described that were created  in
Merilon...

    "Very well,  little pet,"  said Anja,  reaching into  the air  and
producing the stone, "since you are so unimpressed, you try it."

    Joram scowled, his  dark, feathery  eyebrows drawing  a grim  line
across the childish face. There it was. There was the hurt. He touched
the dull ache.

    "You know I can't," he said sullenly.

    "Take the stone, my  sweet one," Anja  said playfully, holding  it
out to him.

    But Joram  saw no  playful  laughter in  his mother's  eyes,  only
purpose, resolution, and a strange,  eerie glint. Reaching out,  Joram
took the stone.

    "Make the air swallow it," Anja commanded.

    Still scowling, the  boy tossed  the stone  into the  air with  an
exasperated sigh. It clattered to the floor at his feet.

    In the silence that followed,  Joram could hear the stone  rolling
around and around on the wooden floor. When it stopped, Joram  glanced
at his mother  out of  the corner  of his eye.  "Why can't  I make  it
vanish?" he  demanded in  a low  voice. "Why  am I  different? Even  a
catalyst can do such a simple thing..."

    "Bah! And it will be a  simple thing for you, too, someday."  Anja
fondled the crisp, black  curls that twined  around Joram's face.  "Do
not fret. Those  of the  nobility are  sometimes slow  to develop  the
magic."

    But Joram was  not satisfied.  She did not  look at  him when  she
spoke, her gaze  was on his  hair. Angrily, he  jerked his head  back,
away from her touch.

    "When?" he  demanded stubbornly,  The boy  saw his  mother's  lips
tighten, and he braced himself to face her anger. But then Anja's hand
fell limply into her lap. Her gaze grew unfocused.

    "Someday soon," she replied, smiling vaguely. "No, don't bother me
with questions. Give me your hand."

    Joram hesitated, staring at his mother, as if determined to argue.
Then, seeing it would do no good, he held out his hand. Anja took hold
of it, studying it intently.

    "The fingers  are  long  and  delicate,"  she  said,  speaking  to
herself. "Their movement quick, supple. Yes, good. Very good."

    Causing the stone  to rise up  from the floor  into the air,  Anja
deposited it in the child's open palm.

    "Joram," she said  softly, "I am  going to teach  you to make  the
stone disappear. This is magic that I am going to show you, but it  is
secret magic. You must never show anyone else or allow anyone else  to
see you use it or they will send both of us Beyond. Do you understand,
my heart's delight?"

    "Yes," Joram  replied, wide-eyed  and  incredulous, his  fear  and
suspicion replaced by a sudden, hungry desire to learn.

    "The first time  that I  threw the stone  into the  air, I  didn't
really make the  air swallow  it, I  only seemed  to, just  as I  only
seemed to pull the stone  back out. No, I  mean it. Watch. Look,  I've
thrown it up into  the air. It has  vanished. Right? Wasn't that  what
you saw? Ah, but look. The stone is still here! In my hand!"

    "I don't understand," said Joram, once more suspicious, "I  fooled
your eyes. Watch, I  seem to throw  the stone up in  the air and  your
eyes follow the motion I  make with my hand.  But while your eyes  are
looking at that, my  hands are doing this.  And there goes the  stone.
This is what  you must do  from now on,  Joram-learn to fool  people's
eyes. No, sweet  one. Do not  frown. It is  not difficult. People  see
what they want to see. Now, you try..."

    Thus, Joram began his lessons in sleight-of-hand.

    Day after day he  practiced, safe in  the protective magical  aura
that surrounded  the hovel.  Joram enjoyed  the lessons.  It gave  him
something to do and it was  also something he discovered he was  quite
good at doing. Child that he was,  he never wondered how Anja came  to
know this secret art or, if he  did, he passed it off as just  another
of the strange things about her, like her ragged dress. Only one thing
bothered him. Once more, The Difference  bobbed to the surface of  his
mind.

    "Why must I do this, Anja?" Joram asked casually, about six months
later. He  was practicing  moving  a round,  smooth pebble  along  his
knuckles, making it skitter rapidly across the back of his hand.

    "You will need this skill when you go out into the fields to  earn
your keep next year," Anja replied absently.

    Joram's head  jerked up,  quick  as a  cat  pouncing on  a  mouse.
Catching the boy's  swift, dark-eyed glance,  Anja hastily added,  "If
you haven't developed the magic yourself yet, of course."

    Frowning, Joram opened  his mouth, but  Anja turned away.  Looking
down at her tattered, filthy dress,  she smoothed the fabric with  her
brown, callused hands. "There  is another reason, too.  When we go  to
Merilon, my son, you will be able to impress the members of the  Royal
House with your talents."

    "Are we going  to Merilon?" Joram  cried, forgetting his  lessons,
forgetting The Difference. Jumping to his feet, he dropped the  pebble
and clasped hold of his mothers hands. "When, Anja, when?"

    "Soon," Anja answered calmly, plucking at Joram's curls. "Soon.  I
must find my jewels." She glanced vaguely about the hovel. "I've  lost
the jewel box. I cannot appear in the court without-"

    But Joram was  not interested  in jewels or  in Anja's  incoherent
ramblings that were growing more  and more frequent. Clutching at  the
shredded remnants of his mothers skirt, he begged, "Please, Anja, tell
me when. When will I see the  wonders of Merilon? When will I see  the
Silken Dragon and the  Three Sisters, and  Spires of Rainbow  Crystal,
and the Garden of the Swan and the-"

    "Ah, my sweet one, my pretty one," Anja said fondly, reaching  out
to stroke the black curls that  tumbled about his face. "Soon we  will
go to Merilon. Soon  you will see  the beauty and  the wonder that  is
Merilon. And they  will see you,  my butterfly. They  will see a  true
Albanara, a wizard of a noble house. For this I am educating you,  for
this I am working. Soon I will  take you back to Merilon, and then  we
will claim what is rightfully ours."

    "But when?" Joram persisted stubbornly.

    "Soon, my beauty, soon,"  was all Anja would  say And, with  that,
Joram had to be content.

    At eight,  Joram took  his  place in  the  fields with  the  other
children of the Field Magi. The tasks the children performed were  not
difficult, though  the  days  were long  and  tiresome,  the  children
working the same  time span  as the  adults. They  were assigned  such
mundane jobs as clearing a field of rocks or carefully gathering worms
and other insects that fulfilled  their small destinies by working  in
harmony with man to raise the food that nourished his body.

    The catalyst did not grant the children Life; this would have been
an uncalled-for waste of energy. So the children walked, not  floated,
among the fields. But most had  enough natural Life force within  them
to be able to send the rocks to the air or cause the wingless worms to
fly above  the  plants.  Often  they  enlivened  their  work-when  the
overseer  and  the  catalyst  weren't  watching-by  holding  impromptu
contests in magic. On those rare  occasions when Joram was cajoled  or
goaded into exhibiting his skill, he easily matched their feats  using
the sleight-of-hand techniques at  which he had  become adept. And  so
they took no particular notice of him.

    Most of the time, in fact, the other children did not invite Joram
to join  in  their play.  Few  liked him.  He  was sullen  and  aloof,
instantly suspicious of friendly overtures.

    "Don't let anyone get close to you, my son," Anja told him.  "They
will not understand you,  and what they do  not understand they  fear.
And what they fear, they destroy."

    One by one, after  each had been coldly  rebuffed by the  strange,
dark-haired child, the  other children let  Joram severely alone.  But
there was one among them who persisted in his attempts to be friendly.
This was Mosiah. The  son of a  high-ranking Field Magus,  intelligent
and outgoing, Mosiah was unusually gifted in magic-so much so that the
catalyst, Father Tolban, had been overheard talking of sending him  to
one of the Guilds to earn his living when he was older.

    Charming, outgoing, and popular,  Mosiah himself couldn't  explain
why he was attracted to Joram, except perhaps that it was in the  same
way the lodestone is  attracted to iron.  Whatever the reason,  Mosiah
refused to be rebuffed.

    He took every  opportunity to work  near Joram in  the fields.  He
often sat with  him during lunch  break, talking away  about this  and
that, never  expecting  or  demanding  a  response  from  the  silent,
withdrawn boy at his side. The friendship might have seemed  one-sided
and thankless-certainly  Joram did  nothing to  encourage it  and  was
often curt in  his infrequent  responses. But Mosiah  sensed that  his
presence was welcome, and  so he kept on,  chipping away at the  stone
facade Joram had  built, a facade  as hard  and tall as  the one  that
encased his father.

    The  years  passed  the  village  of  Walren  and  its   residents
uneventfully, the seasons blending into one another, only occasionally
assisted by  the Sif-Hanar  if nature  didn't act  in accordance  with
their designs.

    As the seasons blended  together, so the lives  of the Field  Magi
flowed into the seasons. In the  spring, they planted. In the  summer,
they tended. In the autumn, they harvested. In the winter, they fought
to survive until spring, when the cycle would start again. But  though
their lives were lives of drudgery and hardship and poverty, the Field
Magi of  Walren counted  themselves fortunate.  All knew  it could  be
worse. The  overseer was  a  fair and  just man  who  saw to  it  that
everyone had his  or her  share in the  harvest, and  didn't demand  a
portion of  anyone's share  for  himself. Bandits,  reputedly  raiding
villages to the north,  had neither been seen  nor heard of here.  The
winters, the worst time of the year, were long and cold, but were  not
as bad as in the lands to the north.

    Even Walren, far  from civilization,  heard word  of uprising  and
rebellion. Discreet inquiries were made among the villagers, in  fact,
to determine if  they didn't  want to assert  their independence.  But
Mosiah's father, a man content with his lot, knew from past experience
that freedom was fine but someone had to pay for it. Thus he was quick
to make it clear to any outsider that he and his people wanted  simply
to be left alone.

    The overseer of Walren counted himself a fortunate man as well. He
never once failed to bring in a bountiful harvest, never had to  worry
about  the  uprisings  and   disturbances  rumored  to  be   occurring
elsewhere. He knew about the  discreet contacts made by  troublemakers
and rabble-rousers from the outside.  But he had an excellent  working
arrangement with his people, he trusted Mosiah's father, and therefore
could, with equanimity, turn a blind eye.

    The  catalyst,  Father  Tolban,   did  not  consider  himself   so
fortunate. Every spare moment, and there were few enough in his  bleak
life, found him hard at work on his studies with the fond view in  his
mind of once  more being accepted  back into the  fold. His  crime-the
crime that had  made him a  Field Catalyst-had been  a minor  offense,
committed in  the  enthusiasm  of youth.  A  treatise,  nothing  more,
written on the Benefits of the Natural Cycle of Weather, as Opposed to
Magical Intervention,  with Regard  to Raising  Crops. It  was a  fine
piece of work, and he was honored by the fact that it had been  placed
in the Inner Library in  the Font. At least,  that was what they  told
him when  they  gave him  this  assignment  and shipped  him  out.  He
couldn't say for  certain if  it was  actually in  the Inner  Library,
never having been allowed back to the Font to find out.

    As the seasons blended into years, and the overseer brought in his
harvest and the catalyst pursued his fading dream, life changed little
for Joram except, perhaps, to grow darker.

    Fifteen years after  she'd arrived at  the settlement, Anja  still
wore the same  dress, the fabric  so worn and  threadbare it was  held
together only by  the spells she  wove around it.  The nighty  stories
continued, enhanced by tales  of the wonders of  Merilon. But, as  the
years passed,  Anja's tales  grew more  confused and  incoherent.  She
often slipped into delusions of being in Merilon itself and, from  her
wild descriptions, the city might have  been a garden of delight or  a
pit of horrors, depending on where her madness led her.

    As for returning  to Merilon, Joram  had come to  realize as  he'd
grown older that Anja's dream was as tattered and frayed as the  dress
she wore. He would have thought her tales all make-believe, but  there
seemed to  be fragments  of  her story  that  had substance  to  them,
clinging to her like the fragments of her once rich clothing.

    Joram's life was bleak and harsh, every day a struggle to survive.
He watched his mother's increasingly  rapid descent into madness  with
eyes that  could have  been  his father's-eyes  of stone  that  stared
continually far away into some shadowy realm of darkness. He  accepted
her insanity in silence, as he had accepted all the other pain.

    But there was  one pain he  could not make  himself accept-he  had
never  acquired  the  magic.  Day  by  day  he  grew  more  adept   at
sleight-of-hand. His illusions  fooled the eyes  of even the  watchful
overseer. But the magic that he longed for and sought every morning to
feel burning in his soul never came to him.

    When he was fifteen, he stopped asking Anja when he would gain the
magic.

    Deep inside of him, he already knew the answer.

    As the children grew older and stronger, the tasks they  performed
grew more  difficult.  Older  boys  and young  men  were  given  hard,
physical  labor-labor  that  kept  them  exhausted  and  their   minds
occupied. It was these  boys and young men  who, it was rumored,  were
stirring up trouble among the Field Magi, and though the overseer  had
no cause for complaint among his people, he didn't intend to play  the
blind fool, either, as the saying went. Therefore, when it was decided
to extend the  settlement's cropland,  he assigned the  young men  the
task of clearing the land. The work was strenuous. They had to haul or
burn away the underbrush, lift  large stones, kill the choking  weeds,
and  there  were  a  hundred  other  back-breaking  tasks.  Then   the
higher-ranking, more privileged  Field Magi would  come and, with  the
aid of the Fihanish, the Druids, use their magic to persuade the giant
trees to  release their  roots from  the ground  and plant  themselves
elsewhere. After this, the young men had to haul those trees that were
dead back to the village  where, several times yearly, the  Pron-alban
sent the winged Ariel to transport the wood back to the city.

    All of the physical labors had to be performed by hand. The  young
men were never given Life by the catalyst to help them in any of these
tasks. Even Mosiah, with his natural gift for magic, was generally too
worn out to  call upon it.  This was done  purposefully, to break  the
spirits of the young men and  mold them into proper, drab Field  Magi,
like their parents.

    As for tools... Once Joram, tired of pushing a huge boulder across
the ground, suddenly conceived the idea of taking a stick, placing  it
under the boulder,  and using the  leverage of the  stick to make  the
boulder move. He was just thrusting the stick beneath the boulder when
Mosiah, with a shocked look, grabbed hold of his arm.

    "Joram, what are you doing?"

    "Well, what  am I  doing?"  Joram snapped  impatiently,  flinching
away. He did not like people touching him. "I'm moving this rock!"

    "You are moving  it by giving  Life to that  stick!" Mosiah  said.
"You are giving Life to that which has none of its own."

    Joram stared at the stick, frowning. "So?"

    "Joram," whispered Mosiah in awe, "that is what the Sorcerers  do!
Those who practice the Dark Arts!"

    Joram snorted. "You mean the Dark Arts are nothing more than using
sticks to move stones?  From the way everybody  fears them, I  thought
they must at least sacrifice babies-"

    "Don't talk  tike  that,  Joram," Mosiah  remonstrated  in  hushed
tones, glancing about nervously. "They deny the magic. They deny Life.
By their Dark Arts, they would destroy it. They almost did destroy it,
during the Iron Wars!"

    "That's  crazy,"   muttered  Joram.   "Why  would   they   destroy
themselves?"

    "If they are Dead inside, as some say, then they lose nothing."

    "What do you mean, 'Dead inside'?" Joram asked in a low voice, not
looking at Mosiah, but staring at the boulder through the tangled mass
of his black hair that had fallen down over his face.

    "Sometimes there  are children  born without  Life," Mosiah  said,
glancing at Joram in some surprise. "Didn't you ever hear about  them?
I would have thought your mother would have told you-" Mosiah  stopped
in embarrassment.

    "No," Joram answered in the same low, expressionless voice, though
his face went white and his hand clenched around the stick.

    Mentally kicking himself for bringing Anja into the  conversation,
Mosiah continued  to  talk  as  he  usually  did  around  the  silent,
unresponsive Joram. "We're given Tests when we're born, and  sometimes
babies fail  these Tests,  which means  they don't  have any  Life  in
them."

    "What happens... to these babies?" Joram asked in such subdued and
quiet tones that Mosiah barely heard him.

    "The catalysts  take  them away  to  the Font,"  Mosiah  answered,
rather startled.  Never  before  had  Joram  asked  a  question  about
anything. "They  perform the  Deathwatch. Some  say that  occasionally
these children are hidden by their parents so that the catalysts can't
take them. It seems kinder to me, though, to let them die quickly. Can
you imagine what it would be like? Living like that? Without Life?"

    "No," Joram answered in a tight, strained voice. Taking the stick,
he hurled it far away from him. Then, staring at the boulder, his eyes
dark and brooding, he repeated, "No. Not at all."

    Watching his friend, wondering uneasily at his unusual interest in
such an unpleasant subject, Mosiah saw  a shadow envelop Joram with  a
darkness so intense that the young man  almost glanced up to see if  a
cloud had  covered the  sun.  Strange, black  moods descended  on  his
friend sometimes.  During  these times,  Joram  remained shut  in  the
shack, while Anja reported defiantly to the overseer that he was sick.

    Once, curious and  worried about  his friend,  Mosiah had  sneaked
back to Joram's shack one  day and looked in  a window. There, he  saw
Joram stretched prone upon the  cot, lying without moving, staring  up
at the ceiling.  Mosiah tapped  on the windowpane,  but Joram  neither
stirred nor acted as if he heard him. He was lying in exactly the same
position when  Mosiah crept  back  to look  that night.  The  sickness
lasted a day or two,  at the end of which  time Joram returned to  his
work, maintaining his customary sullen aloofness.

    But Mosiah  had noticed  something else,  something no  one  else,
perhaps not even  Anja, had seen.  These fits of  black lethargy  were
almost always followed  with fits  of the most  intense activity.  For
days on end, Joram would do the work of three men, driving himself  to
the verge of exhaustion so that he literally walked home in his sleep.

    Now Joram stood wrapped in some dark, brooding thought and Mosiah,
with the sensitivity and intuitive knowledge that had deepened through
the years  in regard  to Joram,  remained with  him, knowing  that  he
was-somehow-wanted and needed.

    As he stood there, scarcely daring to breathe while Joram wrestled
with whatever current demon possessed  him, Mosiah studied his  friend
intently,  trying  as  always  to  see  inside  that  heavily  guarded
fortress.

    As a result of his hard labor in the fields, Joram was, by the age
of sixteen,  strong and  hard-muscled. His  beauty, so  striking as  a
child, had been roughly  hewn and chiseled. Like  the stone statue  of
his father, the marks  of his inner torment  had been carved into  his
face.

    His alabaster skin was tanned a deep, smooth brown from working in
the sun. The  black eyebrows had  thickened, slashing straight  across
his face in a dark line that dipped down slightly at the bridge of his
nose, giving him a took of perpetual fierceness. The smooth,  childish
roundness of his  cheeks had  sunken into sharp,  angular planes  with
high cheekbones and a  strong jawline. His eyes  were large and  might
have been considered beautiful, with their rich, clear brown color and
long, thick  eyelashes.  But there  was  such anger,  sullenness,  and
suspicion in  those  eyes  that  any  who  stood  too  long  in  their
penetrating gaze soon grew nervous and uncomfortable.

    Joram's  hair  was  still  the  one  true  beauty  left  from  his
childhood. His  mother had  never  allowed it  to  be cut.  Those  who
sometimes dared to peep through the window of the shack at night,  and
watch as Anja combed his hair out, whispered in awe that it came  down
to the middle of  his back, falling in  long tendrils of black  around
his shoulders.

    Though Joram did not admit it, his hair had become his one vanity.
He wore it braided  when he worked-a long,  thick coil that hung  down
his back. This  in sharp  contrast to the  other young  men, who  wore
their hair blunt-cut and chin-length. The image of Joram, seated in  a
chair while Anja combed  his hair, caused a  story to spring up  among
the other peasants, who told  that a spider with  a comb spun a  black
web of hair around the young man.

    This image was in  Mosiah's mind, seeing the  black web Joram  was
spinning around  himself,  when suddenly  Joram  lifted his  head  and
turned to his friend.

    "Come with me," he said.

    Mosiah started, a thrill tingling  through his veins. Jorams  face
was clear, the shadow lifted, the web broken.

    "Sure," Mosiah had  sense enough  to answer  easily, falling  into
step beside the taller young man. "Where to?"

    But Joram didn't answer. Walking  swiftly, he pushed ahead with  a
strange, eager expression of excitement and activity on his face  that
contrasted so vividly with  the previous dark,  brooding look that  it
seemed as if the sun had broken through a storm cloud.

    On and on  they walked, through  the forested land  the magi  were
gradually reclaiming from  the wilderness,  and soon  left the  ground
where they had  been working behind.  The trees grew  thicker as  they
moved deeper into the woods; the  forest floor was choked with  brush,
almost impassable. Forced more than once  to use his magic to clear  a
path, Mosiah felt his already low energy begin to drain. Having a good
sense of direction, he knew fairly  well where they were and this  was
confirmed by an ominous sound-the sound of rushing water.

    Slowing his pace, Mosiah looked around uneasily.

    "Joram," he said, touching his friend on the shoulder, noticing as
he did so that Joram, in  his strange excitement, did not flinch  away
as usual. "Joram, we're close to the river."

    Joram did not reply, he simply kept walking.

    "Joram," Mosiah said, feeling his throat tighten, "Joram, what are
you doing? Where are you going?"

    He managed  to stop  the young  man, tightening  his grip  on  his
shoulder, expecting every second to be coldly rebuffed. But Joram only
turned at his touch to look at him intently.

    "Come with me,"  he said, his  dark eyes glowing.  "Let's see  the
river. Let's see what's across it."

    Mosiah licked his lips, dry with walking in the bright sunlight of
late afternoon. Of all the wild  schemes! Just when he had been  able,
so he thought, to see the beginnings of a crack in the stone  fortress
where some light  might penetrate, he  must now close  it up with  his
very own hand.

    "We can't, Joram," Mosiah said quietly and calmly, though he  felt
sick with despair inside. "That's the border. The Outland lies beyond.
No one goes there."

    "But you've talked to people there.  I know you have," Joram  said
with the wild eagerness that was so strange.

    Mosiah flushed.  "How  did you  know  that? No,  never  mind,"  he
muttered. "I didn't talk to them.  They talked to me. And... I  didn't
like... what they said." Clutching Joram's shoulder, he tugged on  him
gently. "Come back home, Joram. Why do you want to go there?..."

    "I have to get  away!" Joram answered in  a voice suddenly  fierce
and passionate. "I have to get away!"

    "Joram," said Mosiah desperately, trying to think what might  stop
him, wondering what put  this crazy notion into  his head. "You  can't
leave. Stop and think calmly a minute! Your mother-"

    At the mention of the word, Joram's face went blank. There was  no
shadow upon it, yet there was no  light either. His face was as  blank
and cold as stone.

    With a shrug, Joram jerked  away from Mosiah's grasp. Turning,  he
plunged back into  the brush,  seeming to  care little  if his  friend
followed or not.

    Mosiah followed, with pain in his heart. The crack in the fortress
was gone, the fortress made stronger and more durable than before. And
he had no idea why.

    11

    Spring's Bitter Harvest Spring planting time came.

    Everyone worked together during spring planting. Each person, from
the youngest to the eldest, toiled  in the fields from before dawn  to
late evening-sowing the  seed, or  setting young  seedlings which  had
been carefully  nurtured  through the  winter,  in the  warm,  freshly
plowed ground. The work had to be done swiftly, for soon the Sif-Hanar
would arrive to seed  the clouds as the  Field Magi seeded the  earth,
sending the gentle rains that would make the fields lush and green.

    Of all the seasons of the  year, Joram hated spring planting  time
most. Though  now,  at the  age  of sixteen,  he  was such  a  skilled
sleight-of-hand artist  that  his  tricks were  almost  impossible  to
detect, the  seeds were  so  tiny that  even  with all  his  practiced
dexterity, he appeared clumsy and slow  in sowing them. His hands  and
shoulders ached  at  night  from  the hard  work  and  the  stress  of
maintaining the illusion that he possessed the magic.

    This year  it  was particularly  difficult,  for they  had  a  new
overseer, the old one having passed  away during the winter. This  new
overseer had been brought from the northern part of Thimhallan,  where
rebellion among the Field Magi and the lower classes had been  brewing
and bubbling for years. He was alert to the danger signs of  rebellion
therefore; in fact, he was actively  watching for it. And he found  it
immediately-in Joram.  Early  on, he  determined  to stomp  out  those
smoldering coals of sullen anger he could see in the young man's eyes.

    The magi were  out in  the fields early  one morning,  practically
before sunrise. Gathering together in  a group, they stood before  the
overseer, patiently awaiting their assigned duties.

    Joram did not stand patiently, however. He shifted nervously  from
one foot to  another, flexing his  shapely hands to  ease the  morning
stiffness. He knew the overseer was watching him. The man had  singled
him out for  special attention, though  for what reason  he could  not
guess. More than  once, he had  looked up  from his work  to find  the
man's sharp-eyed gaze on him.

    "Of course he watches you, my own proud beauty," Anja said  fondly
when Joram mentioned his  suspicions. "He is jealous,  as are all  who
see you. He knows one of the nobility. Likely he fears your wrath when
you come into your own."

    Joram had long ago ceased to listen to this kind of talk from  his
mother. "Whatever his reason," he snapped impatiently, "he is watching
me-and not with jealousy, mark my words."

    Though she made light  of his fears, Anja  was more frightened  by
Joram's worry than she admitted. She, too, noticed the overseer taking
an unusual and apparently  hostile interest in her  son and she  began
hovering near Joram, working in the fields beside him when she  could,
trying to cover  for his  slowness. In  her overeager  protectiveness,
however, Anja more often than not drew the overseer's attention rather
than distracted it.  Joram grew increasingly  more nervous and  upset,
and the anger that always smoldered deep inside began to burn  hotter,
now that it had a target.

    "You," called the overseer, motioning to Joram, "over there. Start
seeding."

    Sullenly, Joram  moved off  with the  other young  men and  women,
slinging the sack of  seed over his shoulder.  Though she hadn't  been
told to do so, Anja followed after Joram quickly, fearful the overseer
might send her to some other part of the field.

    "Catalyst," rang out the overseer's voice, "we're behind schedule.
I want you to grant all these people Life. They're to hover, not walk,
today. I figure they can cover one third more ground that way."

    This was an unusual request, one that caused even Father Tolban to
glance at the  overseer questioningly. They  weren't behind  schedule.
There was no need for this. But, though Father Tolban didn't like  the
overseer, he  did not  question  him. The  Field Catalyst  had  become
immured in his life of tedious drudgery. He'd even, finally, given  up
his studies. Every day, he took his place in the fields with the magi,
every day he trudged up  and down the long  rows of plowed earth.  The
winter winds froze him.  The summer sun thawed  him. He had turned  as
brown and dried and withered as a stalk of last year's corn.

    As the catalyst began chanting the ritual, Joram froze. No  matter
how much Life he was granted, he  was bound to the earth. Deep  inside
him, the old pain stabbed. The Difference. He almost stopped  walking,
but Anja, behind  him, shoved  him on, digging  her sharp  fingernails
into the flesh  of his arm.  "Keep moving!" she  whispered. "He  won't
notice."

    "He'll notice," Joram retorted, angrily  snatching his arm out  of
his mother's grasp.

    Undeterred, Anja clutched at  him, "Then we'll  tell him what  you
always told the  other," she hissed.  "You are not  well. You need  to
conserve your Life force."

    One by one, the Field Magi, suffused with Life from the  catalyst,
used their magic  to lift gracefully  into the air.  Like small  brown
birds, they began  to skim  over the  surface of  the ground,  rapidly
sowing the seeds in the freshly plowed soil.

    Joram and Anja kept walking.

    "Here! Stop! Wait a minute, you two. Turn around."

    Joram halted, but he kept his  back to the overseer. Anja  stopped
and half-turned, glancing through the matted mass of her filthy  hair,
her chin raised.

    "Were you talking to us?" she asked coldly.

    Ignoring them for a  moment, the overseer  stalked over to  Father
Tolban. "Catalyst," said the overseer, pointing at Joram's back, "open
a conduit to this young man."

    "I have  done so.  Overseer," replied  Father Tolban,  in  injured
tones. "I am quite capable of handling my duties-"

    "You've done so?" interrupted the overseer, glaring at Joram. "And
now he stands there, absorbing Life  force, storing it up for his  own
personal use! Refusing to obey me!"

    "I don't think  that's true,"  returned the  catalyst, staring  at
Joram as though seeing him for the first time. "It's very odd. I don't
get the feeling that the young man is drawing Life from me at all-"

    But the overseer, with a growl, left the catalyst still expounding
and walked across the new-plowed earth toward Joram.

    Joram heard him coming,  but he did not  turn around to face  him.
Staring straight ahead,  unseeing, he clenched  his fists. Why  didn't
the man just leave him alone?

    Mosiah, watching nervously,  felt the  truth slip  under his  skin
like a splinter. Quickly he motioned for Joram to turn and talk to the
overseer. Joram could  hide it!  He had  all these  years. There  were
countless things he might offer as excuses.

    But, if Joram even saw his friend, he ignored him. He didn't  know
how to talk to this  man, let alone how to  reason with him. He  could
only stand there  dumbly, acutely aware  that all the  other magi  had
come to a  halt and were  staring at  him. Blood rushed  to his  head;
anger and embarrassment throbbed in his temples. Why couldn't they all
just leave him alone?

    Coming up behind Joram, the overseer reached out to grasp hold  of
the young man's shoulder, intending  to physically impose his will  on
the sullen boy. But  before he could touch  him, Anja slipped  between
the overseer and her son.

    "He is not  well," she said  quickly. "He must  conserve his  Life
force..."

    "Not well!" The overseer snorted,  his gaze flicking over  Joram's
strong, young body. "He's well enough  to be a damned rebel."  Shoving
Anja aside, the  overseer put  his hand  on Joram's  shoulder. At  the
man's touch, Joram spun around to  face him, even as he  involuntarily
moved several steps backward, out of the man's reach.

    Drifting in the air nearby,  Mosiah started to float forward  with
some idea of intervening, but his father stopped him with a look.

    "I'm not a rebel," said Joram, breathing heavily. He seemed to  be
suffocating. "Just let me get  on with my work. And  let me do it  the
way I do best..."

    "You'll do it  the way  y'er told,  you young  dog!" the  overseer
snarled and started to take  another step forward when Father  Tolban,
who had been staring at Joram with a pale face and wide eyes, suddenly
gave a shrill  cry. Stumbling  forward, falling over  his plain  green
robes, he grabbed hold of the overseer's arm.

    "He's  Dead!"  the  catalyst  gasped.  "By  the  Nine   Mysteries,
overseer, the boy's Dead!"

    "What?" Startled, the  overseer turned  to the  catalyst, who  was
shaking him frantically.

    "Dead!" Father Tolban  babbled. "I wondered...  But I never  tried
giving Life to him!  His mother always-He's Dead!  There's no Life  in
him! I can't get any response-"

    Dead! Joram stared  at the catalyst.  At last the  words had  been
spoken. At last the truth  he had known in  his own heart entered  his
brain and his soul. Memories of Anja's story came to him. The  Vision.
No living issue.  Memories of Mosiah's  words. Dead children  smuggled
out of the cities. Dead children smuggled out of Merilon.

    Alarmed and terrified, Joram looked at Anja...

    ... and he saw the truth.

    "No," he said,  letting the  sack of  seeds fall  unheeded to  the
ground and backing up another step. "No," He shook his head.

    Anja held out her arms to  him. Her face was deathly pale  beneath
the dirt, her eyes were wide and fearful.

    "Joram! My sweet! My own! Please, listen-"

    "Joram," broke  in Mosiah.  Moving closer,  ignoring his  father's
disapproving gaze, the young  man had no idea  what he might do,  only
that he could offer comfort.

    But Joram did  not see  or even hear  his friend.  Staring at  his
mother in horror, the  young man shrank back  before her, shaking  his
head violently. His black hair sprang loose from its bonds. Dark curls
fell down across his pale face, a mockery of the tears she had  taught
him not to cry.

    "Dead!" repeated  the overseer,  having apparently  just  absorbed
this information. His eyes glittered. "There's a reward for the living
Dead. Grant me Life, Catalyst,"  he commanded. "Then open a  Corridor!
I'll keep him prisoner until the Enforcers arrive-"

    It happened and was over in the  beat of a heart, the blink of  an
eye, the drawing of a breath.

    With the image of Joram's pale  face before her eyes, Anja  turned
away from him to face the  overseer. Her son, her beautiful son,  knew
the truth now. He would hate her forever, she could see the hatred  in
his eyes. It  cut through  her like the  cold, conjured  blades of  an
enemy. And sounding  amid this  bitter pain, tormenting  her like  the
notes of shrill, discordant music, came the word "Enforcer."

    Long ago, the Enforcers, the  Duuk-tsarith, had come to take  away
her lover. It was a Duuk-tsarith who had turned him to stone. Now they
were going to take away  her child. As they  had come once that  other
time...

    "No... Don't take my baby!" Anja cried wildly. "You mustn't. He'll
be warm, soon, I'll warm him. Stillborn? No! You're wrong! Here,  I'll
hold him thus,  next to my  body. He'll be  warm soon. Breathe,  baby.
Breathe, little one. You're lying, you bastards! My baby will breathe!
My baby will live. The Vision was a lie..."

    "Shut her up and  call an Enforcer!"  the overseer cried,  turning
away.

    Father Toban felt the  conduit surge, energy  was sucked from  him
with such force that he fell to his knees. With his last strength,  he
closed off the Life-giving force, but it was too late. Looking up,  he
watched helplessly  as  Anja's  nails  curled  into  strong,  slashing
talons, her teeth lengthened into fangs. The tattered dress changed to
silken fur, her body rippled with muscles. Moving swiftly and silently
in her giant catlike form, she leaped at the overseer.

    The  catalyst  shouted  an   incoherent  warning.  The   overseer,
whirling, caught a glimpse of  the raging wizardess. Flinging his  arm
up to  protect himself,  he reflexively  activated a  magical  defense
shield.

    There was a crackling sound, a terrible, agonized scream, and Anja
sank down  to lie  in a  burned,  crumpled heap  on the  newly  plowed
ground. The spell she had cast over herself ended. Relaxing into human
shape, she looked  up at,  Joram, tried  to speak,  then, shaking  her
head, she lay quite still, unmoving, her eyes staring up into the blue
spring sky.

    Weak and  horror-stricken, Father  Tolban crawled  over and  knelt
beside her.

    "She's dead!" murmured the catalyst in shock. "You've killed her."

    "I didn't  mean  to,"  protested  the  overseer,  staring  at  the
lifeless body of the woman on the ground at his feet. "I swear! It was
an accident! She... You saw her!"  The overseer turned to face  Joram.
"She was crazy! You know that, don't you? She jumped at me! I-"

    Joram didn't answer. The confusion was gone from his mind. Fear no
longer blinded him. He saw everything with a startling, vivid clarity,
In my mother's body, the warmth of  Life is gone. In me, it has  never
been. Now that the  truth was spoken within  him, he could accept  it.
The pain became a part of him, no different from any other.

    Looking around, Joram saw the  tool he needed, and reaching  down,
he picked up the heavy  stone. He even paused  a moment to notice  the
texture and feel of the stone as it lay in his palm. Rough and jagged,
the stone's sharp edges bit into  his skin. It was cold and  lifeless,
as Dead as he himself. He thought incongruously of the stone Anja  had
given him as a child, telling him "to make the air swallow it."

    Balancing the  stone  for an  instant,  getting the  feel  of  the
weight, Joram straightened and,  with all his  strength, hurled it  at
the overseer.

    The stone struck the man  on the side of  his face, caving in  his
head with a soggy sound, like the squashing of an overripe melon.

    Father Tolban, still  kneeling beside  Anja's body,  froze, as  if
turned to stone himself. The Field Magi slowly dropped to the  ground,
feeling the Life force  ebb from them as  shocked realization of  what
had occurred penetrated their minds.

    Joram stood  silently,  unmoving, staring  at  the bodies  on  the
ground.

    Anja was a pitiable sight to her son. Thin and gaunt, clad in  the
rags of her former happiness, she died as she had lived, Joram thought
bitterly. She died denying the truth. He spared a glance-and a  glance
only-for the overseer, who  lay on his back,  blood from the  terrible
wound forming a pool in the freshly turned dirt. The man had not  seen
the attack coming, he had not even imagined it possible.

    Looking at his hands, then looking at the stone lying next to  the
man's crushed head, Joram's only thought was-how easy... How very easy
it had been to kill with that simple tool...

    He felt a touch on his  arm. Whirling in fear, he grabbed  Mosiah,
who shrank back before the madness he saw in the dark, brown eyes.

    "It's me, Joram!  I'm not going  to hurt you!"  Mosiah raised  his
hands.

    At the sound of the voice,  Joram loosened his grip slightly,  dim
recognition dawning in his eyes, driving away the darkness.

    "You've got to get  out of here!" Mosiah  said urgently. His  face
was pale, his eyes so wide that they seemed almost all white with only
a tiny dot of color. "Hurry!  Before Father Tolban opens the  Corridor
and brings the Duuk-tsarith!"

    Joram stared at Mosiah blankly, then he looked back at the  bodies
on the ground.

    "I don't know where," he muttered, "I can't-"

    "The Outland!"-Mosiah shook him-"The  border, where you wanted  to
go  before.  There  are  people  who  live  there.  Outlaws,   rebels,
Sorcerers. You  were right.  I've talked  to them.  They'll help,  but
you've got to hurry, Joram!"

    "No! Don't  let  him escape!"  Father  Tolban cried.  Pointing  at
Joram, the catalyst  opened conduits full-force  to the magi,  sending
Life flowing into them. "Stop him!"

    Mosiah turned. "Father?" he cried urgently.

    "Mosiah's right. Run,  Joram," said the  magus. "Take yourself  to
the Outlands. If you survive, those who live there'll watch over you."

    "Don't worry  about your  mother, Joram,"  came a  woman's  voice.
"We'll tend to  the ceremony. Yuu  better run, young  man, before  the
Duuk-tsarith get here."

    Still Joram stood there, staring at the bodies.

    "Take him partway, Mosiah," said  his father. "He's addled.  We'll
see that he gets the time to make a fair start."

    The Field Magi  moved toward Father  Tolban, who shrank  backward,
staring at them.

    "You don't dare!"  the catalyst  whimpered. "I'll  report you!  An
uprising..."

    "No you  won't  report us,"  said  Mosiah's father  calmly,  still
advancing. "We tried to stop the boy, didn't we?"

    The other Field Magi nodded.

    "Your life has been  easy enough here,  Father. You wouldn't  want
that to change now, would you? Mosiah, get him going..."

    But Joram had come  to himself now, returning  as if from a  great
distance. "Which  way?" he  asked Mosiah  in a  firm voice.  "I  don't
remember..."

    "I'll come with you!"

    Joram shook  his head.  "No,  you have  a  life here."  He  caught
himself, adding  bitterly.  "You have  a  life. Now,  which  way?"  he
repeated.

    "Northeast," Mosiah answered. "Cross the river. Once you're in the
woods, be wary."

    "How will I find those people?"

    "You won't. They'll find  you, hopefully before something  nastier
does." He held out his hand. "Good-bye, Joram."

    Joram stared at the young man's  hand for a moment, the only  time
he could remember  seeing a hand  held out  to him in  either help  or
friendship. Looking into Mosiah's face, he  saw the pity in his  eyes,
pity and revulsion he could not hide.

    Pity for a Dead man.

    Turning, without  a  look  behind, Joram  ran  across  the  plowed
fields.

    Mosiah's hand dropped  to his  side. For long  moments, he  stared
after Joram,  then, with  a sigh,  he went  back to  stand beside  his
father.

    "Very well, Catalyst,"  said the magus,  after Joram's figure  had
disappeared into the nearby woods. "Open the corridor and send for the
Enforcers. And, Father," he added as the catalyst turned, cringing, to
start back to his  cabin, "remember the way  of things, will you?  The
Duuk-tsarith will be  here for only  a few minutes.  You'll be here  a
long, long time..."

    His head bowed  in understanding,  Father Tolban cast  the magi  a
last, fearful glance, then hurried off.

    Kneeling down beside Anja, one of  the women moved her hands  over
the burned body, creating a coffin of crystal around the corpse  while
the other magi levitated the body of the overseer and sent it drifting
toward the settlement.

    "If the boy's truly Dead, you've done him no kindness, sendin' him
out there," remarked  a woman, staring  into the dark  regions of  the
forest. "He'll stand no chance at all against the likes of what  roams
the Outland."

    "At least  he'll have  a chance  to fight  for his  life,"  Mosiah
answered hotly. Catching his father's eye, he choked and fell silent.

    Into each mind came the unspoken question.

    What life?

    12

    Escape Joram ran, though nothing chased him.

    Nothing  that  he  could  see,  that  is.  Nothing  real.  Nothing
tangible. The Enforcers could not  arrive this fast. The others  would
protect him, buy him time. He was in no danger.

    Still, he ran.

    It was only when  spasms cramped his aching  legs that he  finally
collapsed onto the ground and knew that he could never outrun the dark
and tormented being who pursued him. He could never outrun himself.

    How long Joram lay on the  forest floor, he never afterward  knew.
He had no idea where he was. He had an indistinct impression of  trees
and tangled  plant  life.  Somewhere,  he thought  he  heard  the  low
murmuring of water. The only thing  real to him was the earth  beneath
his cheek, the pain in his legs, and the horror in his soul.

    As he lay in  the dirt, waiting  for the pain  to ease, the  cold,
rational part of his mind told him that he should get up and  continue
on. But beneath that cold and rational surface of Joram's mind  lurked
a being, a dark creature  that he managed, most  of the time, to  keep
fettered and guarded. But  on occasion it slipped  its leash and  took
him over, mastering him completely.

    Night blanketed the  young man lying  exhausted and frightened  in
the wilderness, and the  coming of night  loosed the blackness  within
Joram. Free again, it  leaped out of its  corner, sank its teeth  into
him, and dragged his soul away, to gnaw and ravage.

    Joram did not get up. A  numb, paralyzed sensation stole over  his
body, such as one  feels upon first awakening  from a deep sleep.  The
sensation was pleasant. The  pain left his legs  and soon all  feeling
left his body. He could no longer taste the dirt of the ground in  his
mouth, where his cheek pressed against  the muddy trail. He no  longer
had any conscious thought of lying on  the ground, or of the chill  of
the evening air, or that he was hungry or thirsty. His body slept, but
his mind remained dreamily awake.

    Once again he  was a  little child, crouched  at the  feet of  the
stone magus that was his father, feeling that hot, bitter tear  splash
upon him. Then  the tear  changed to  his hair,  tumbling and  curling
around his face and  down his back, his  mother's fingers ripping  and
tugging at  it,  tearing apart  the  tangles. And  then  his  mother's
fingers were  the  claws  of  animals,  ripping  and  tugging  at  the
overseer, tearing apart his life.

    Then the stone that was his father became a stone in Joram's hand.
Cold and biting, the stone shrank suddenly, becoming a toy, dancing in
his fingers  and appearing  to disappear  into the  air. But  all  the
while, the  stone  was safely  palmed,  concealed, hidden  from  view.
Hidden, until today, when it grew so  large in his hand that he  could
hide it no longer and he hurled it far away...

    Only it kept coming back and, once again, he was a child...

    It was night. And it was day.  Perhaps it was night again and  day
again.

    Black spells, Anja called these times for Joram, when the darkness
of his soul overwhelmed him. They had begun to afflict him when he was
about twelve. He had no power over them. He could not fight them,  but
for days he would lie upon his hard cot, staring at nothing,  refusing
to even acknowledge his mother's frantic attempts to force him to  eat
or drink or walk in the real world.

    What roused him  from these  black times, Anja  could never  tell.
Joram would suddenly sit up, cast a bitter glance about the hovel  and
at her, as if blaming her for his return. Then, with a sigh, he  would
return to life, looking as if he had wrestled with demons.

    But so deep  had he sunk  this time that  it seemed nothing  might
rouse him. The cold  and rational part of  his mind appeared ready  to
give up the fight when it suddenly gained an ally-danger.

    Joram's first conscious thought was irritation at being  bothered.
But his next was one of  excruciating pain that exploded in his  knee,
tore through  his body,  and  snatched his  breath away.  Gasping  and
moaning, he rolled over in agony.

    "It be live."

    Through a  haze of  pain and  the departing  shadows of  darkness.
Joram stared up toward the sound of the gruff voice. He had a confused
impression of greasy, matted hair covering a face that once might have
been human but now had  degenerated into something bestial and  cruel.
Hair covered human arms and  a human chest as well.  But it was not  a
human foot that had kicked Joram, it was the cloven foot of a beast.

    The pain jolted his nerves, body,  and mind back to reality.  Once
again he could see and feel, and  the first feeling he had was one  of
terror. He saw sharp  hooves standing close to  his head and,  looking
up, the powerful body of the creature that was half-horse and half-man
looming above him. A sudden vision of that hoof slamming into his head
caused fear to act as the  second stimulant to Joram's system. But  it
could only do so  much. His muscles were  stiff from long disuse,  his
body weak  from lack  of food  and water.  Gritting his  teeth,  Joram
managed to rise up on his hands and knees, only to feel the hoof crash
into his  ribs,  sending him  sprawling  headlong into  a  thicket  of
underbrush.

    Pain stabbed him.  Unable to  breathe, he  fought for  air as  the
hooves clattered nearer. A huge hand gripped him by the collar of  his
shirt and yanked him to his  feet. Staggering on legs that stung  with
returning circulation, Joram would have  fallen, but other hands  held
him up, binding his arms behind his back swiftly and skillfully.

    A grunt. "Walk, human."

    Joram took a step, stumbled, and fell as the blood tingled in  his
numb legs.

    The hands jerked him to his feet again and shoved him forward. The
pain in  his  side was  a  slow fire,  the  earth heaved  beneath  his
unsteady steps, trees reached out to maul him. He stumbled ahead, then
tripped and fell into  the dirt, landing heavily.  His arms bound,  he
was unable to catch himself and he rolled in the muck.

    The centaurs laughed, "Sport," said one.

    They hauled him to his feet again.

    "Water," Joram gasped through cracked lips, his tongue swollen.

    The   centaurs   grunted,   the   hairy   faces   splitting   into
yellow-toothed grins. "Water?" repeated one. Raising a massive arm, he
pointed. Joram, barely standing on his shaking legs, turned his  head.
He could see the river ahead  of him, sparkling through the leaves  of
the trees. "Run," said the centaur.

    "Run! Human! Run! "shouted another centaur, laughing.

    Desperately,  Joram  broke  into  a  staggering  run,  hearing   a
cantering and thudding of hooves beating into the ground, feeling  hot
breath on his back, and choked by a foul, bestial odor, The river drew
closer, but Joram  felt his strength  ebbing. He knew,  too, with  the
certainty of despair, that  the centaurs had  no intention of  letting
him reach the river.

    Once human, these  creatures had been  mutated by the  DKarn-Duuk,
the Battle Masters, and sent to fight  in the Iron Wars, The wars  had
proved costly, devastating.  The warlocks left  alive were drained  of
their magic, their catalysts exhausted,  having no more strength  left
to draw on  the sources  of Life.  Unable to  call upon  the magic  to
change their creations  back, the DKarn-Duuk  abandoned their  mutated
soldiers, banishing them to the Outland. Here the centaurs lived their
lives, breeding with animals or captured humans, creating a race whose
human feelings  and  emotions  were  almost  completely  lost  in  the
struggle to survive. Almost lost,  but not quite. One emotion  thrived
among them, nurtured and cherished over the centuries-hatred.

    Though the reason for that  hatred had long since perished  within
the minds of these creatures who  had no memory of their history,  the
centaurs knew one  thing-torturing and  murdering humans  gave them  a
deep, inner satisfaction.

    Stumbling to  a halt,  Joram turned  with some  idea of  fighting.
Immediately a hand crashed into his face, knocking him over. Lying  on
the ground, wracked by pain, the  cold part of Joram's mind told  him,
"Die now. End it quickly. It doesn't matter, anyway."

    He heard the hooves hitting the dirt around him. One thudded  into
his body. He  didn't feet  it, though  he heard  bones crack.  Slowly,
determinedly, he staggered to his feet. The centaurs knocked him  down
again. More blows from the sharp hooves broke his bones, cut into  his
flesh, He tasted blood...

    The coldness of a voice stung  Joram back to consciousness as  the
coldness of water stung his lips.

    "Can we do anything for him?"

    "I don't know. He's pretty far gone."

    "He's conscious, at least.  That's something," continued the  cold
voice. "Any signs of a head wound?"

    Joram felt hands  upon his  head. Rough and  uncaring fingers  ran
over his skull,  twitched open his  eyes "No. I  guess they wanted  to
enjoy him as long as possible," There was a pause, then the same voice
continued, "Well, do we take him back to Blachloch or not?"

    Another pause.

    "Take him," said the cold  voice finally. "He's young and  strong.
It'll be worth our  trouble to haul  him back to  camp. Set his  bones
with the splints, the way the old man showed you."

    "Do you 'spose he's  the one killed the  overseer? " a voice  very
close to Joram's ear boomed as  rough hands gripped his limbs,  making
him gag with the sudden jolt of pain.

    "Of course," said the cold voice dispassionately. "Why else  would
he have been  out here?  That makes him  more valuable.  If he  proves
troublesome, Blachloch can always  turn him in. He  still has his  old
contacts in Duuk-tsarith."

    A bone crunched.  Blackness tinged with  fiery red swirled  around
Joram. He  caught hold  of the  cold  voice, hanging  on so  that  the
darkness would not sweep him under.

    "Be quick about it,"  the cold voice said  irritably. "Get him  on
the packhorse. And  stop him from  screaming like that.  There may  be
other centaur hunting parties on the border."

    "I don't think you're  going to have to  worry about his  yellin'.
Look at him. He's finished."

    Indistinguishable words, vanishing in a vast distance.

    A sensation of being raised...

    A sensation of falling...

    Days and nights tumbled into one  another with a noise of  rushing
water. Days and nights of  the vague dreamlike awareness of  traveling
upon the water. Days and nights of struggling for consciousness,  only
to be assailed  by pain and  the bitter knowledge  of being alone  and
forgotten. Days and nights of lapsing into unconsciousness and  hoping
bleakly never to waken.

    Then there was the vague knowledge that the journey had ended  and
he was on land once more. He was in a strange dwelling, and Anja  came
to him, kneeling beside him and combing out his tangled black hair and
whispering stories  of Merilon,  Merilon  the Beautiful,  Merilon  the
Wondrous. And he could picture Merilon  in his mind. He could see  the
crystal spires  and the  boats  with silken  sails drawn  by  fabulous
animals that drifted  upon the  currents of  air. He  was happy  while
these dreams lasted, and his pain  eased. But when the pain  returned,
the dreams  grew distorted  and terrible,  Anja became  a creature  of
fangs and claws, trying to rip open his chest and tear out his heart.

    Always, over  and above  the  dreams and  through the  pain,  came
strange sounds,  as of  a  giant breathing,  and  a banging,  like  an
untuned bell, and a hissing, like  a horde of snakes. Fire sprang  up,
burning before his eyes, burning away the beautiful, distorted  images
of Merilon.

    But finally  there was  darkness and  silence. Finally  there  was
sleep, peaceful and  restful. Finally there  was a day  when his  eyes
opened and he  looked around him,  and Anja was  gone and Merilon  was
gone and  there was  only an  old  woman sitting  beside him  and  the
banging sound ringing in his ears.

    "A long  journey,  you've had,  Dark  One," said  the  old  woman,
reaching out her hand to smooth  back his black hair. "A long  journey
that almost  took you  Beyond.  The Healer  did  what she  could,  but
without a catalyst to grant her Life, her arts are limited."

    Joram tried to sit up, but discovered that his arms and legs  were
bound.

    "Untie me," he cried hoarsely, trying to make himself heard  above
the  banging,  bellowing  sounds  that  came  from  somewhere   close,
apparently outside the cabin.

    "Nay, lad,  you're not  bound,"  said the  old woman,  smiling  in
gentle amusement.  "No, now  lie still.  You had  a leg  broke in  two
places and an  arm practically twisted  off and ribs  smashed in.  The
bindings you  feel are  holding you  together, young  man," Her  smile
changed to one  of pride.  "An invention of  my husband,  when he  was
younger. It's the best we could do for you, without a catalyst to  aid
our Healer. Those  splints hold  the bones  in place  while they  knit
themselves back together."

    Joram lay back, confused, and suspicious, but too weary to  either
argue or fight. The incessant banging  appeared now to be coming  from
inside his head. Seeing him wince, the old woman patted him.

    "The sounds of the forge, You'll get used to it, in time. I  don't
hear it at all  now, except when it  stops. Likely you'll work  there,
lad," she added, rising to her feet. "You're a strong one, I'll wager,
and used to hard work. I can tell from your callused hands. We can use
a young man of your build and  girth. But don't worry about that  now.
I'll get you a bite of broth, if you think you can stomach it."

    Joram nodded. The bandages  itched. It hurt to  move. But then  he
felt an arm beneath  his head and  a touch of  something on his  lips.
Opening his  eyes,  he  saw  the  old woman  holding  a  bowl  and  an
odd-looking implement in  her hand. With  this implement, she  carried
the broth  from  the  bowl to  his  mouth.  The taste  was  salty  and
delicious, filling his body with warmth. Eagerly, he gulped it down.

    "There, that's enough,"  said the  old woman,  settling him  back.
"Your stomach's not used to it, yet. You must try to sleep again."

    How could he sleep with that infernal noise?

    "What is a  forge?" he  asked wearily,  "You'll see,  all in  good
time, Dark One," she said, bending  over him with another kind  smile.
As she did, Joram noticed an object hanging from a silver chain around
her neck that had slipped from the bodice of her dress and now dangled
down before his eyes. It was a pendant of some sort, Joram recognized,
remembering Anja telling  him about the  glittering jewels the  people
wore in Merilon. But this was not a glittering jewel. It was a  crude,
hollowed-out circle, carved  in wood,  with nine  thin spokes  running
through it, Seeing Joram's gaze upon the object, the old woman touched
it with her  hand, fondling it  as proudly as  the Empress might  have
fondled her rich jewelry.

    "Where am I?" Joram asked drowsily, feeling as if he were back  on
that terrible journey and the water  was once more sweeping him  away,
"You are with those  who practice the Ninth  Mystery, those who  would
bring down death and destruction upon Thimhallan, according to  some,"
The old woman's voice was  sad, like the low  murmur of the river.  It
came to him  from a  distance, muffled  by the  banging and  bellowing
sounds. Floating upon the water, he  heard the old woman's voice  once
again, whispering as the wind.

    "We are the Coven of the Wheel."

    13

    Saryon's Punishment Seventeen  years had passed  since Saryon  had
committed his  heinous crime  of  reading forbidden  books.  Seventeen
years had passed since he had  been taken to Merilon. Seventeen  years
had passed since the  death of the Prince.  The people of Merilon  and
its  small  empire  of  surrounding  city-states  had  just  completed
commemorating the holiday  of that mournful  occasion when Saryon  was
summoned once again to Bishop Vanya's chambers in the Font.

    The arrival  of  the  summons,  coming  as  it  did  on  the  dark
anniversary, brought such dreadful and unhappy memories to Saryon that
he could not  help but  accept it with  some trepidation.  He had,  in
fact, returned  to the  Font from  his current  home in  the Abbey  of
Merilon expressly to avoid the holiday  that reminded him not only  of
his shattered hopes and dreams and of the Empress's bitter sorrow, but
of the sorrow of others he had seen whose children had been born Dead.

    Saryon always returned to the Font, if he could, during this  time
every year. He found comfort there, for no one at the Font was allowed
to ever refer to the death of the Prince, much less celebrate it as  a
memorial. Bishop Vanya had forbidden  it, an occurrence that  everyone
thought odd.

    "Old Vanya really detests this holiday," remarked Deacon  Dulchase
to Saryon as the  two walked the silent,  peaceful corridors of  their
mountain fastness.

    "I can't say that I blame  him," Saryon replied, shaking his  head
with a sigh.

    Dulchase snorted. Still a Deacon in his middle years, and  knowing
that he would undoubtedly  die a Deacon,  Dulchase had no  compunction
about speaking his mind-even in the Font where, it was said, the walls
had ears, eyes, and mouths. Why he hadn't been sent to the fields long
ago was due strictly  to the intervention of  the now elderly Duke  of
Justar, in whose household he had been raised.

    "Bah! Let  the Empress  have her  fancy. It's  little enough,  the
Almin knows. You heard that Vanya  tried to dissuade the Emperor  from
declaring the holiday?"

    "No!" Saryon looked shocked.

    Dulchase nodded, smug in his knowledge. He knew all the gossip  of
the court. "Vanya told the Emperor that it was sinful to remember  one
who had been born without Life, one who was obviously cursed."

    "And the Emperor refused him?"

    "They draped  Merilon  in weeping  blue  again this  year,  didn't
they?" Dulchase asked, rubbing his  hands. "Yes, the Emperor had  guts
enough to  face up  to His  Holiness, even  though it  meant that  His
Holiness stalked out in a  huff and now refuses  to go near the  Royal
Court."

    "I can't believe it," Saryon murmured.

    "Oh, that won't last long. It's  just for show. Vanya will be  the
winner in the end, no doubt about it. Just wait, the next matter  that
comes up, the Emperor will  be only too happy  to give in. They'll  be
reconciled, and Vanya will  simply wait until next  year to do it  all
over again."

    "I didn't mean  that," Saryon said,  glancing around uneasily  and
drawing Dulchase's attention to  one of the black-robed  Duuk-tsarith,
who was standing  silently In  the corridor,  his face  hidden in  the
depths of  his cowl,  his  hands folded  before  him as  was  correct.
Dulchase snorted again in disdain, but Saryon noticed that the  Deacon
crossed the corridor  to walk upon  the other side.  "I mean, I  can't
believe the Emperor refused him."

    "It was all due to the Empress, of course." Dulchase said, nodding
knowingly and  slightly  lowering his  voice,  with a  glance  at  the
Enforcer. "She  wanted it  done, and  so, of  course, it  was done.  I
tremble to think what  might happen if  she took it  into her head  to
want the moon! But you should know that. You've been at court."

    "No, not that much," Saryon admitted.

    "In Merilon and doesn't attend court!" Dulchase flashed Saryon  an
amused glance.

    "Look at me," Saryon said.  Flushing, he raised his large,  clumsy
hands. "I don't fit in with the  rich and the beautiful. You saw  what
happened during the ceremony seventeen years ago, when I got the color
of my robe wrong? And I don't  believe that I've once gotten it  right
since then! If the color was Apricot Flambé was Rotting Peach. Oh, you
laugh, but it's true.  Finally I left off  changing it altogether.  It
was easier wearing the plain, untrimmed white of my rank and calling."

    "I'll bet you were a hit!" Dulchase said caustically.

    "Oh, wasn't I!" Saryon answered with  a bitter smile and a  shrug.
"You know what they called me  behind my back-Father Calculus. It  was
because all  I  could  ever  talk  about  was  mathematics."  Dulchase
groaned. "I know,  I bored them  to tears, some  to invisibility.  One
night the Earl simply  dwindled away, before my  eyes. He didn't  mean
to, poor  man.  He was  frightfully  embarrassed and  apologized  most
handsomely. But he's getting old-"

    "If you only made the effort..."

    "I tried, I truly  did. I joined in  the gossip and the  revelry."
Saryon sighed.  "But  it proved  too  difficult. I'm  getting  old,  I
suppose. I'm asleep two hours before most people in Merilon even think
about sitting down  to dinner."  He glanced  around him  at the  stone
walls that glowed softly with a  magical radiance. "I enjoy living  in
Merilon. Its beauties seem to me as new and awe-inspiring as they  did
on that day I  first saw them,  seventeen years ago.  But my heart  is
here, Dulchase. I want to pursue my studies. I need access to material
here. There's a  new formula I'm  devising and I'm  not quite  certain
about some of the magical theorems involved. You see, it's like this-"

    Dulchase cleared his throat, "Ah, yes. I'm sorry." Saryon  smiled.
"There goes Father Calculus again. I get too enthusiastic, I know.  At
any rate, I was  planning to make  my request to  return here, then  I
received this summons from the Bishop..." Saryon's face grew shadowed.

    "Cheer up.  Don't look  so  frightened," Dulchase  said  casually.
"He's probably going  to offer you  condolences on the  death of  your
mother. Then, like as not, he'll  invite you back himself. You're  not
like me,  after  al!,  You've  been a  good  boy,  always  eaten  your
vegetables, that sort  of thing.  Don't worry about  anyone at  court.
Even as boring  as you undoubtedly  were, my friend,  you could  never
outbore the  Emperor." Dulchase  glanced sharply  at Saryon's  averted
face, "You have been eating your vegetables, haven't you?"

    "Yes, of  course," Saryon  answered hastily,  with an  attempt  to
smile that was a dismal failure. "You're right. It's probably  nothing
more than that." Glancing at Dulchase, he found the Deacon staring  at
him curiously. Once again, the terrible burden of guilt for his  crime
assailed him. Feeling  completely unable  to stay  around the  shrewd,
penetrating  Deacon  any  longer,  Saryon  made  his  rather  confused
goodbyes and hastened away, leaving Dulchase to stare after him with a
wry grin.

    "I wish I knew what rats  are crawling around in your closet,  old
friend. I'm  not the  first to  wonder why  you were  sent to  Merilon
seventeen years ago. Well, whatever it is, I wish you luck.  Seventeen
years might as  well be seventeen  minutes as far  as His Holiness  is
concerned. Whatever you've done, he won't have forgotten, nor forgiven
either for  that matter,"  Heading back  to his  own duties,  Dulchase
shook his head with a sigh.

    Leaving Dulchase, Saryon fled to  the haven of the Library,  where
he could count  on being  left alone. But  he did  not study.  Burying
himself beneath a mound of parchment,  well out of sight from any  who
might chance  by, the  Priest  put his  tonsured  head in  his  hands,
feeling as miserable as  he had when he  had been summoned to  Vanya's
chambers seventeen years earlier.

    He had seen  Bishop Vanya  on numerous occasions  during the  past
years, since  the Bishop  always  stayed at  the Abbey  when  visiting
Merilon. But Saryon had not spoken to him since that fateful time.

    It was not that the Bishop avoided him or treated him coldly.  Far
from it. Saryon had received a  very kind, very sympathetic letter  on
the occasion of  his mother's death,  expressing the Bishop's  deepest
sympathies and assuring him  that she would rest  in the same tomb  as
his father in one of the most  honored places in the Font. The  Bishop
even approached him during the  funeral ceremonies, but Saryon,  under
the guise of being deeply grieved, turned away.

    He was not comfortable  in the Bishop's  presence. Perhaps it  was
because he had never  truly forgiven His  Holiness for condemning  the
small Prince to death. Perhaps it  was because, whenever he looked  at
Vanya, Saryon  could see  only his  own guilt.  He'd been  twenty-five
years old when he had committed  his crime. Now Saryon was  forty-two,
and he felt he'd lived more in these last seventeen years than he  had
in all those first twenty-five! What he'd told Dulchase about his life
at court was only partially true. He didn't fit in. They did  consider
him a crashing bore. But that wasn't the real reason he avoided it.

    The beauty and  the revelry  of court life  was, he'd  discovered,
nothing but an illusion. As an example, Saryon had watched the Empress
succumb, day  by day,  to a  wasting illness  that the  Healers  found
impossible to treat. She was dying, everyone knew it. No one discussed
it. Certainly not the Emperor, who never failed to comment nightly  on
how improved his lovely wife looked and how beneficial the spring  air
brought about by the Sif-Hanar (it had been spring a year in  Merilon)
was for her recovered health. Everyone in the court nodded and agreed.
The magical arts of her ladies in waiting put color into the Empress's
chalk-white cheeks and changed the hues of her eyes.

    "She looks  radiant,  Your  Majesty. Only  grows  more  beautiful,
Majesty.  Never  seen  her  in  such  delightful  spirits,  have  you,
Highness?"

    They could not, however, add flesh  to the sunken face or dim  the
feverish luster of her gaze, and the whispers around court were, "What
will he do when she dies? The  line runs through the female side.  Her
brother is visiting,  heir to  the throne. Have  you been  introduced?
Allow me. Might be wise."

    And through it all, through all the beauty and illusion, the  only
reality seemed to be Bishop Vanya-moving, working, lifting a finger to
beckon someone here, motioning with  his hand to smooth something  out
there, guiding, controlling, always in supreme control himself.

    Yet Saryon had seen him shaken  once, seventeen years ago. And  he
wondered, not for the first time,  what it was that Vanya was  keeping
hidden from them.  Once again, he  heard the Bishop's  words, I  could
give you the  reason-Then the sigh  that stopped the  words, then  the
look of  stern, cold  resolution. No.  You  must do  what I  tell  you
without question.

    A novitiate  appeared  before  him, touching  him  gently  on  the
shoulder. Saryon started. How  long had the  boy been standing  there,
unnoticed?

    "Yes, Brother? What is it?"

    "Forgive me for interrupting you, Father, but I have been sent  to
bring you to the Bishop's quarters, whenever it is most convenient."

    "Yes, Right now  will-uh-be fine."  Saryon rose to  his feet  with
alacrity. Not  even  the  Emperor,  it was  said,  kept  Bishop  Vanya
waiting.

    "Father Saryon, enter, enter." Vanya,  rising to his feet, made  a
cordial motion  with  his hand.  His  voice was  warm,  though  Saryon
thought it seemed  a bit strained,  as if he  were having a  difficult
time keeping the fires of his hospitality burning.

    Starting to kneel  to kiss  the hem of  his robes  as was  proper,
Saryon was vividly and painfully reminded of the last occasion when he
had performed this act, seventeen years earlier. Perhaps Bishop  Vanya
remembered as well.

    "No, no, Saryon," Vanya said pleasantly, taking the priest by  the
hand. "We can dispense with obsequities. Reserve those for the  public
for which they are intended. This is a private, quiet little meeting."

    Saryon looked at the Bishop sharply, hearing more said in the tone
of the words than in the words themselves.

    "I am-am honored, Holiness," Saryon  began in some confusion,  "to
be summoned into your presence-"

    "There is one here, Deacon, I  would like you to meet,"  continued
Bishop Vanya smoothly, ignoring Saryon's words.

    Turning, startled, Saryon saw that there was another person in the
room.

    "This is Father Tolban,  a Field Catalyst  from the settlement  of
Walren," said Vanya. "Father Tolban, Deacon Saryon."

    "Father Tolban," Saryon bowed as  was customary. "May the  Almin's
blessing be yours."

    It was  no  wonder Saryon  had  not  noticed the  man  upon  first
entering. Brown and dried and withered, the Field Catalyst disappeared
into the woodwork as thoroughly as if he had grown there.

    "Deacon Saryon,"  Tolban  mumbled,  bobbing  nervously,  his  eyes
darting from Saryon  to Bishop  Vanya and  back to  Saryon again,  his
hands twitching  and tugging  at the  long sleeves  of his  untrimmed,
mud-stained, and shabby green robes.

    "Please, everyone be seated," Vanya said kindly, indicating chairs
with a wave of his hand. Saryon noticed that the Field Catalyst waited
a  moment-to  make  certain  he  had  really  been  included  in   the
invitation, he supposed.  This made  things rather  awkward, since  by
courtesy Saryon could not really  sit down without the Field  Catalyst
seating himself as well. Starting to  sit, he noticed that Tolban  was
still standing, forcing him to catch  himself and stand back up,  just
about the same time as Tolban  had finally decided it was  permissible
for him to sit.  Seeing Saryon standing,  however, the Field  Catalyst
leaped to his feet again, his face flushing red in embarrassment. This
time, Bishop Vanya intervened, repeating  the invitation to be  seated
in a pleasant but firm tone.

    Saryon sank into a  chair, relieved. He'd  had visions of  jumping
around most of the afternoon.

    After  inquiring  if  anyone  cared  for  refreshment-which   they
didn't-and some further polite talk  about the difficulties of  spring
planting and the prospects for this year's harvest, all of which  were
answered weakly and somewhat confusedly by the obviously nervous Field
Catalyst, Bishop Vanya finally came to the point.

    "Father Tolban  has  quite  an unusual  story  to  relate,  Deacon
Saryon," he said, still  in his same pleasant  voice, as if they  were
three friends indulging in  idle talk. Saryon's  tension eased a  bit,
but his mystification  increased. Why  had he been  called to  Vanya's
private chambers-a place he had not set foot in for seventeen years-to
listen to a Field Catalyst relate a story? He looked at Vanya sharply,
only to find the Bishop looking at him with a cool, knowing expression
in his eyes.

    Quickly, Saryon turned  his attention to  the Field Catalyst,  who
was drawing a deep breath  as if about to  plunge into icy water,  now
prepared to pay close  attention to the  little dried-up man's  words.
Though Bishop Vanya's face was smooth and placid as always, Saryon had
seen a muscle twitch in the man's  jaw, just as he had seen it  twitch
at the ceremony for the dead Prince.

    Father Tolban began his tale, and Saryon discovered that he had no
need to force himself to listen. He could not have torn himself  away.
It was the first time he heard the story of Joram.

    The catalyst  experienced  several emotions  during  the  telling,
emotions ranging  from  shock  to  outrage  and  revulsion-the  normal
emotions one  feels upon  hearing such  a grim,  dark revelation.  But
Saryon knew, too, a stomach-clenching, bone-chilling fear, a fear that
spread from his bowels through his body. Shivering, he huddled  deeper
into his soft robes.

    What am I afraid of? he asked  himself. Here I am, sitting in  the
Bishop's elegant chambers, listening  to the halting, stumbling  words
of this  withered old  catalyst. What  could possibly  be wrong?  Only
later would  Saryon recall  the  look in  Bishop  Vanya's eyes  as  he
listened to the story. Only later  would he come to understand why  he
shivered in terror. As it was, he  decided at the time it was  nothing
more than the  vicarious thrill of  fear one enjoys  listening to  the
stories of  the  nursery, stories  of  dead creatures  who  stalk  the
night...

    "And  by  the  time  the  Duuk-tsarith  arrived,"  Father   Tolban
concluded miserably, "the young man had been gone several hours.  They
tracked him as far  as the Outlands, until  it became obvious that  he
had  vanished  in  the  wilderness.  We  could  see  where  his  trail
disappeared across  the  borders  of  civilization.  They  also  found
centaur tracks. There  was little  they could  do, and  in fact,  they
simply assumed him  lost to this  world, since all  know that few  who
venture into those lands return. That is how I reported it."

    Vanya frowned and the catalyst flushed, hanging his head. "I-I was
premature, it seems, in my judgment, for now, a year later-"

    "That will be sufficient,  Father Tolban," Bishop Vanya  remarked,
still speaking very pleasantly.

    But the  Field Catalyst  wasn't fooled.  Clenching his  hands,  he
stared down gloomily at the floor.  Saryon knew what the wretched  man
must be thinking. After  this disaster, he'd be  a Field Catalyst  for
the rest of his natural existence. But that certainly wasn't  Saryon's
problem, nor was it why he had been asked to listen to this dark  tale
of insanity and murder.  He glanced again,  puzzled, at Bishop  Vanya,
hoping to find some answer. But  Vanya was not looking at Saryon,  nor
was he looking at the poor Field Catalyst. The Bishop was staring  out
into nothing, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, obviously  grappling
mentally with some unseen enemy. At last his struggles came to an end,
or appeared to do so  at any rate, for he  turned to Saryon, his  face
once more smooth.

    "A most shocking incident, Deacon."

    "Yes, Holiness," Saryon replied, still feeling the shiver creeping
over his body.

    Placing the tips of his pudgy fingers together, Vanya tapped  them
delicately. "There  have been  several instances,  over the  past  few
years, where we have been able to locate those children who were  born
Dead and yet who, through the misguided actions of their parents, were
allowed to  remain in  the  world. When  they were  discovered,  their
terrible sufferings were mercifully relieved."

    Saryon shifted uneasily in his seat. He had heard rumors of  this,
and though he  knew what a  tortured existence these  poor souls  must
lead, he could not help wondering if such drastic measures were really
necessary. Apparently his  doubts were  expressed upon  his face,  for
Vanya frowned and, turning his gaze upon the innocent Field  Catalyst,
proceeded to expostulate.

    "You know, of  course, that we  cannot have the  Dead walking  the
land," Vanya said sternly to Father Tolban.

    "Y-yes, Holiness," stammered the  catalyst, shrinking before  this
undeserved and unexpected attack.

    "Life, the magic,  comes from all  around us, from  the ground  we
walk, the air we breathe, the  living things that grow to serve  us...
yes, even  the  rocks  and  stones, crumbled  remains  of  once  great
mountains, give us  Life. It is  this force we  call upon and  channel
through our humble bodies that gives the magi the ability to mold  and
alter the raw elements into objects both useful and beautiful."

    Vanya glared  at the  Field  Catalyst, to  see  if he  was  paying
attention. The  catalyst, not  knowing  what else  to do  and  looking
thoroughly miserable, gulped, and nodded.

    The  Bishop  continued,  "Imagine  this  Life  force  as  a  rich,
full-bodied  wine,  whose  color,   flavor,  bouquet"-he  spread   his
hands-"is perfect in  every respect. Would  you dilute this  wonderful
wine with water?" Vanya asked suddenly.

    "No, oh no, Holiness!" cried Father Tolban.

    "Yet you  would permit  the Dead  to walk  among us  and, what  is
worse, perhaps allow their seed to fall into fertile ground and  grow?
Would you see the vines of weeds choke out the life of the grape?"

    The Field Catalyst  might have been  a dried grape  himself as  he
shriveled under  this  barrage. His  brown  face shrank,  his  wizened
features twisted  while  he  desperately  protested  that  he  had  no
intention of nurturing weeds.  Vanya allowed him  to babble, his  gaze
shifting to Saryon,  who bowed  his head.  The reprimand  was his,  of
course. It would not be proper for  a Bishop to scold a Font  Catalyst
in the presence of  an underling, so Vanya  had chosen this method  to
rebuke him. Confused memories of hiccuping babies and weeping  parents
flitted  into  Saryon's  mind,  but  he  firmly  repressed  them.   He
understood. The Bishop was right,  as always. Deacon Saryon would  not
be the one to dilute the wine.

    But, he wondered, as he sat  staring at his hands folded  properly
in his lap, where was all this leading?

    With an  abrupt  gesture,  Vanya  squelched  the  Field  Catalyst,
cutting him off at the roots and leaving him on the ground to  wither.
The Bishop turned to Saryon.

    "Deacon Saryon, you are no doubt  wondering what this tale has  to
do with you. And now you will have your answer, I am sending you after
this Joram."

    Saryon could do nothing but stare, aghast. Now it was his turn  to
stammer and stutter, to the vast  relief of Father Tolban, who  seemed
extremely grateful  to find  the attention  shifted away  from him  at
last.

    "But... Holiness, I-You said he was dead."

    "N-no,"  Father  Tolban   faltered,  cringing.   "I-That  was   my
mistake..."

    "He's not dead, then?" Saryon said.

    "No," Vanya replied. "And you must find him and bring him back."

    Staring at Bishop  Vanya, Saryon wondered  what he could  possibly
say. That I'm not Duuk-tsarith. That I know nothing about apprehending
dangerous criminals. That I'm middle-aged, that I'm a catalyst-a  word
synonymous with weak and defenseless.  "Why me, Holiness?" he  managed
to ask feebly.

    Bishop Vanya smiled, tolerant of his priest's confusion. Rising to
his feet, he sauntered over to the window, waving his hand behind  him
as he went. This  gesture was to the  two underlings, indicating  that
they were to keep their seats, both of them having started to leap  up
when he stood.

    Saryon relapsed into the  soft cushions of the  chair, but at  the
same time, he tried to shift his position in such a way that he  could
see Vanya's face as he talked. That proved impossible. Walking to  the
window, the Bishop stood with his back to Saryon, staring down at  the
courtyard below.

    "You see, Deacon Saryon," he  began, his voice still pleasant  and
nonchalant, "this  young man,  this Joram,  presents rather  a  unique
problem for us. He did not meet his physical death in the Outlands  as
was  reported."  At  this   juncture,  Vanya  half-turned,   carefully
examining a  bit of  the fabric  of  the curtain  and scowling  at  it
irritably. The Field Catalyst  went deathly white. Finally  muttering,
"A flaw,"  Vanya continued  imperturbably.  "Father Tolban  has  since
received word which  leads us  to believe  that this  young man,  this
Joram, has joined up with a group who call themselves the Coven of the
Wheel."

    Saryon glanced at Father Tolban,  hoping for a clue, since  Bishop
Vanya had uttered these words  in a tone of  such dread that he  could
only suppose he was the only person in Thimhallan never to have  heard
of this group. But the Field Catalyst was no help, having shrunk  back
so far in his chair as to be practically invisible.

    Receiving no  response from  his priest,  Vanya glanced  over  his
shoulder.

    "You have not heard of them, Father Saryon?"

    "No, Holiness,"  Saryon  confessed, "but  I  lead such  a  retired
life... my studies..."

    "No need  to apologize."  Vanya cut  him off.  Clasping his  hands
behind his back, he turned to  face him. "I would have been  surprised
if you  had,  as a  matter  of fact.  As  a loving  parent  keeps  the
knowledge of dark and wicked things  from his children until they  are
strong and wise enough to deal with them, so we keep knowledge of this
dark cloud from our people, bearing the burden upon ourselves in order
that they may live in sunshine. Oh, the people are not in danger,"  he
added, seeing that Saryon raised his eyebrows in alarm. "It is  simply
that we  will  not  allow  vague  fears  to  disturb  the  beauty  and
tranquility of  life in  Merilon as  it has  been disturbed  in  other
kingdoms. You see, Father Saryon, this  coven is devoted to the  study
of the Dark Art-the study of the Ninth Mystery-Technology."

    Once again,  Saryon  felt  that  cold  fear  grip  his  bowels.  A
shivering sensation starting at his scalp ran over his entire body.

    "It seems that this Joram had a friend, a young man called Mosiah.
One of the Field  Magi, hearing noises in  the night, woke and  looked
out his window. He saw Mosiah and a young man he is positive was Joram
engrossed in conversation. He could not hear all of what was said, but
he swears he overheard the words  'Coven' and 'Wheel'. He said  Mosiah
drew back at this,  but his friend must  have been persuasive  because
the next morning, Mosiah was gone."

    Saryon glanced over at Father Tolban just in time to see the Field
Catalyst cast a  furtive look  at Vanya, who  was studiously  ignoring
him. Tolban  looked over  at  his fellow  catalyst and  caught  Saryon
looking at him. Flushing guiltily,  Tolban returned to staring at  his
shoes.

    "We have, of course, known of the existence of this coven for some
time," Bishop  Vanya frowned,  "It is  composed of  every outcast  and
misfit who  thinks the  world owes  him something  in return  for  his
birth. Not only do  the Dead walk  among them, but  so do thieves  and
robbers, debtors, vagrants, rebels... Now  a murderer. They come  from
all over the  Empire, from  Sharakan in the  north to  Zith-el in  the
east. Their numbers are growing,  and while the DKarn-Duuk could  deal
with them easily enough, going in to take the young man by force would
mean armed conflict. It would mean  talk, upset, and worry. We  cannot
have that, not now, while the political situation in court is in  such
delicate balance." He cast a meaningful glance at Saryon.

    "This-this is  dreadful, Holiness,"  Saryon stammered,  still  too
confused to catch more than one word in ten. But Vanya was looking  at
him, expecting a reply, so he said the first thing that came into  his
head. "Surely-er-something must be done.  We cannot live knowing  that
this threat exists..."

    "Something is being  done, Deacon  Saryon," Bishop  Vanya said  In
soothing tones. "Rest  assured, the matter  is under control,  another
reason that apprehending the boy  must be handled delicately. But,  at
the same  time,  we dare  not  allow this  murder  of an  overseer  go
unpunished. Talk is already spreading  throughout the Field Magi,  who
are, as you know,  a discontented, rebellious lot.  To let this  young
man go free  after his  heinous crime  would encourage  the spread  of
anarchy among  this class.  Because of  this, the  young man  must  be
apprehended alive and made to  stand trial for his crime.  Apprehended
alive," Vanya muttered, frowning, "That is most important."

    At last, Saryon thought  he was beginning  to understand, "I  see,
Holiness." He had  some trouble getting  his words out  past a  bitter
taste in his  mouth. "You need  someone to go  in, isolate this  young
man, open a Corridor, and lead the Duuk-tsarith to him without  anyone
else being the  wiser. And you  chose me because  I was once  involved
with the Dark-"

    "You were  chosen for  the  excellent mathematical  knowledge  you
possess, Deacon Saryon,"  Bishop Vanya interrupted,  sliding in  under
Saryon's words smoothly. A glance at  the Field Catalyst and a  slight
shaking of the head were  enough to remind Saryon  that he was not  to
speak of  the old  scandal. "These  Technologists, so  we are  led  to
believe, are  extremely fascinated  with the  subject of  mathematics,
believing it to be the  key to their Dark  Art. This will provide  you
with ideal cover  and lead them  to accept you  into their group  most
readily."

    "But, Holiness,  I am  a catalyst,  not a-a  rebel, or  a  thief,"
Saryon protested. "Why should they accept me at all?"

    "There have been renegade catalysts before," Vanya remarked wryly.
"This Joram's father was one, in  fact. I remember the incident  quite
well-he was found guilty  of conceiving through  the repulsive act  of
physically joining with a female. He  was sentenced to the Turning  to
Stone..."

    Saryon shuddered involuntarily. All his old sins were crowding  in
on him, it  seemed. The  lurid dreams of  his youth  returned to  him,
adding to his tension. The fate of Joram's father might well have been
his own! For a  moment, he was very  nearly physically ill and  leaned
back against the cushions of his  chair. When the blood quit  pounding
in his ears and his dizzy feeling abated, he could once more attend to
Vanya's words, "Surely  you remember the  incident, Deacon Saryon?  It
was seventeen years ago... But, no, I forgot. You were...  absorbed...
in your own problems at that  time. To continue, upon being told  that
her child had  failed the  Tests, the  mother-I believe  her name  was
Anja-disappeared, taking the babe with her. We tried to trace her, but
it proved impossible. Now, at last,  we know what happened to her  and
her child."

    "Holiness," Saryon said, swallowing the  bile in his mouth, "I  am
not a young man. I  do not believe I am  suited for such an  important
task. I  am  honored in  the  confidence you  repose  in me,  but  the
Duuk-tsarith are far better qualified-"

    "You  underestimate   yourself,   Deacon,"   Bishop   Vanya   said
pleasantly, leaving the window and walking across the room. "You  have
been living too long  among your books." Coming  to stand directly  in
front of Saryon, he looked down  at the priest. "Perhaps I have  other
reasons for choosing you, reasons that I am not at liberty to discuss.
You have been chosen. I cannot, of course, force you to do this.  But,
do you not feel that you  owe the Church something, Saryon,  for-shall
we say-past kindnesses?"

    The Field Catalyst could  not see the  Bishop's face. Only  Saryon
could see it, and he would remember it to the day he died. The  round,
pudgy cheeks were placid  and calm. Vanya  was even smiling  slightly,
one eyebrow raised. But  the eyes... the  eyes were terrible-dark  and
cold and unyielding.

    Suddenly, Saryon understood the genius of the man and, at last, he
could give a  name to his  unreasoning: fear. The  punishment for  the
crime he had committed so many years before had been neither forgotten
nor relaxed.

    No, it had simply been deferred.

    Seventeen years Vanya had  waited patiently should an  opportunity
arise to use it...

    To use him...

    "Well, Deacon  Saryon,"  the  Bishop said,  still  in  that  same,
pleasant voice, "what do you say?"

    There was nothing to say. Nothing but the ancient words Saryon had
learned so long  ago. Repeating them  now, as he  repeated them  every
morning in  the  Ritual  of  Dawn, he  could  almost  see  the  white,
thin-boned hand of his mother, tracing them in the air.

    "Obedire est vivere. Vivere  est obedire. To obey  is to live.  To
live is to obey."

    BOOK TWO

    * The Outland * 1 The Renegade * 2  Simkin * 3 Lost * 4 Found *  5
The Wedding Feast *  6 The Coven of  the Wheel * 7  The Forge * 8  The
Warlock * 9 The Experiment * 10 The Spy

    The Outland The border of the  civilized lands and that region  of
Thimhallan known as the Outland is marked to the north of Merilon by a
great river.  Called the  Famirash,  or Tears  of the  Catalysts,  its
source is to be found in  the Font, the great mountain that  dominates
the landscape  near Merilon,  the mountain  where the  catalysts  have
established the center of their  Order. Thus the river's name-a  dally
reminder of the toil  and sorrows suffered by  the catalysts in  their
work for mankind.

    The water of the Famirash is sacred. Its source in the  mountain-a
merry, bubbling  brook-is a  holy  place, tended  and guarded  by  the
Druids. Water  taken from  this pure  portion of  the river  possesses
healing properties used by  the Healers throughout  the world. As  the
river runs  upon its  way,  however, tumbling  and laughing  down  the
mountain like the child it is, the Famirash is joined by other streams
and brooks, its innocence and purity  diluted. By the time it  reaches
the city of  Merilon, the river  has grown up,  becoming a wide,  deep
body of water.

    Having gained in  maturity and stature,  the Famirash River,  upon
arriving in Merilon,  becomes civilized.  In the  years following  the
Iron Wars,  the Pron-alban,  wizards skilled  in the  arts of  shaping
stone and earth, took hold of the river, rechanneled it and tamed  it,
split it and divided it, twisted it and turned it, sent it flowing  up
hills and down ornamental waterfalls,  and caught it in quaint,  small
pools. Through their magical arts and those of their descendants,  the
river is  forced up  into the  marble platforms  where it  bubbles  in
fountains and shoots high into  the air in rainbow geysers.  Magically
heated, the  river  creeps demurely  into  perfumed bathing  rooms  or
presents itself  boldly,  ready for  work  in the  kitchens.  Finally,
allowed to venture into Merilon's Sacred Grove, where stands the  tomb
of the great wizard who founded  this land, the Famirash nurtures  the
beautiful tropical plants and  finds time to  indulge in the  artistic
creations of the Illusionists. So vastly changed is the Famirash River
in Merilon that most people forget it is a river at all.

    After suffering itself to endure these civilized trappings, it  is
little wonder that once the river escapes the city walls of Merilon it
churns  and  rages  within  its  banks  in  a  tumult  of  white-water
confusion. Once the Famirash  works this out of  its system, it  calms
down, and by the  time it meanders past  the cleared fields and  small
farm villages, it is like a placid old Field Catalyst, plodding slowly
and muddily along its tree-lined way.

    Onward it flows through the croplands, quiet and hardworking until
it leaves civilized lands behind. Then, once out of the sight of  man,
the Famirash  River gives  a final,  great twist-like  the back  of  a
dragon-and plunges with a wild roar of exultation into the Outlands.

    Free at last, the river becomes a raging torrent of white, foaming
water that leaps over  rocks and rushes  through narrow cavern  walls.
There is an anger in the water, an anger it acquires as it surges past
the dark places where lurk  angry things-beings created by magic  then
tossed aside; beings wrenched from beloved homes, brought to a strange
land, then left  to fend on  their own; beings  who live here  because
their own, dark natures will not allow them to live in the light.

    Strange sights the  river sees,  as it hurtles  along its  course.
Trolls wash the  bones of their  victims in its  waters in the  manner
that the creatures have, cleaning the bones to use them for  ornaments
upon the body or  to decorate their dank  caves. Giant men and  women,
fully twenty feet  tall with the  strength of rock  and the brains  of
children,  sit  upon  its  banks,  staring  into  the  water  in   dim
fascination. Dragons sun themselves upon its rocks like huge  lizards,
keeping one eye open always for  signs of intruders into their  secret
caves. Unicorns  drink  from  its  pools,  savage  centaurs  fish  its
streams, bands of  faeries dance  upon its waters.  But the  strangest
sight of all, perhaps, comes within  the deepest, darkest part of  the
river's journeying, within the very  heart of the Outland-the camp  of
the Technologists.

    By the time it reaches this  region, the Famirash River runs  deep
and wide, dark and sullen. For  here the river receives a rude  shock.
It flows into the clutches of the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery,  who
chain the river and force it to work for them.

    The Technologists,  or  the  Coven  of the  Wheel,  as  they  call
themselves, have dwelt  peacefully within the  shelter of the  Outland
for many years. Numbering several  hundred people, their community  is
an ancient one, having  been founded by those  who escaped the  purges
that took place following the Iron Wars.

    "They give Life to that which is Dead!" was the accusation of  the
catalysts then. "Their Dark Art will  destroy us in this world, as  it
came close to  destroying us in  the ancient world.  Look what it  has
done already! How many have died because of it and how many more  will
die if we do not remove this plague from our land!"

    Hundreds of  the  practitioners of  the  Ninth Mystery  were  sent
Beyond in what became known as the Casting Out. Their books and papers
were, according  to the  catalysts, completely  destroyed, though  the
catalysts secretly kept examples of many of them ("To fight the enemy,
one must  know him  as well  as one  knows oneself.")  The  Sorcerers'
terrible weapons  and engines  of  war slowly  became things  of  dark
legend; the stories of  machines that raise water  from the river  and
carriages that crawl across the ground  on round feet dwindled to  the
stuff of faerie tales that children laugh to hear repeated.

    Those few  who managed  to escape  the persecution  fled into  the
Outland, where they  waged a constant,  bitter struggle for  survival.
Drawn to their ranks were all those  who, as Bishop Vanya said, had  a
grudge against the world. Men and  women of the lower classes who  had
rebelled against their lot, men and  women of all classes whose  greed
led them to crime, men and women whose twisted passions led them  into
a thousand  sins.  Here  too,  in later  years,  came  the  Dead-those
children who had  failed the  Testing. All were  accepted because  all
were needed  to help  in the  desperate battle  against the  wild  and
savage land and its inhabitants.

    Finally, after centuries,  the Technologists managed  to create  a
haven in the wilderness where they  could live more or less at  peace.
All they wanted was to be left alone, having neither the ambition  nor
desire left to force  their ways upon others.  They wanted to live  as
they chose, tinkering and puttering and building their waterwheels and
grindstones and gristmills.  Though still  a haven  for outcasts,  the
Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery had their own laws, which were strictly
enforced. Thus they managed to  rid themselves of tainted blood.  Thus
they managed to live  isolated and apart from  the rest of  Thimhallan
for long, long years, eventually all but forgotten by the rest of  the
world, The world, having forgotten the Sorcerers, might have left them
alone. But, as often happens to  mankind in his search for  knowledge,
the Coven chanced upon a discovery  that could have led to great  good
but was, instead, perverted to evil.

    They learned, once more, the ancient, lost art of forging iron.

    Who knows  by what  chance  this brought  the  evil men  to  them?
Perhaps it was  the discovery  of a  crude knife  upon the  body of  a
centaur. Perhaps it was the spear in the hands of some poor,  pathetic
giant, who babbled the name of those who had made it for him before he
succumbed to torture.  It doesn't  matter now. The  bandits found  the
Coven-a simple, peaceful people, isolated  from the world. To  enslave
them was an easy task,  for the leader of  the bandits was a  powerful
warlock, a former Duuk-tsarith.

    For the last five  years, the Technologists have  been ruled by  a
group who has taken the iron, taken that which is Lifeless, and  given
it a most deadly life of its own.

    1

    The Renegade In less time than it takes to tell it, Saryon started
on his journey. By the time he was ready to leave the Font, he was  no
longer afraid, nor  was he bitter  or angry. He  was resigned. He  had
accepted his fate. After all, he had escaped punishment for  seventeen
years... He left the Font under the cover of night, sped upon his  way
by the Enforcers, the black-robed Duuk-tsarith.

    Only one person noticed Saryon was gone-Deacon Dulchase. When  his
inquiries among Masters  and brethren  brought only  shrugs and  blank
looks, Dulchase, secure in the  favor of his Duke, finally  confronted
Bishop Vanya himself.

    "By the  way, Holiness,"  said Dulchase  in conversational  tones,
planting himself in front of the Bishop as he walked about one of  the
terraced gardens, "I have missed Brother Saryon of late. He and I were
to have discussed a mathematical hypothesis concerning the possibility
of fetching the Empress the moon. The last time I saw him, he spoke of
being summoned to your chambers. I wondered-"

    "Father Saryon?" interrupted the Bishop coldly, glancing around at
several other catalysts, members of his staff, who were standing near.
"Father Saryon..." the Bishop mused. "Yes, I recall now. I believe  he
and I discussed a mathematical theory of his, something about  shaping
stone. He seemed fatigued to me. Overworked. Don't you agree, Deacon?"
An emphasis on the rank. "I recommended a... holiday."

    "I'm certain he took your recommendation to heart. Holiness,"  the
perennial Deacon returned, frowning.

    "I hope so, Brother," Bishop Vanya said, turning away.

    With a sigh, Dulchase went back to his cell to perform the  Ritual
of Night, seeing, in his mind's  eyes, his poor friend slogging  among
the beans and cucumbers.

    Dulchase was  not far  wrong  in his  imaginings. The  Bishop  had
decreed that  Saryon should  establish a  "reputation" as  a  renegade
catalyst so that, when he vanished  into the Outland, his story  would
be believed. He also  advised Saryon to discover  what he could  about
Joram, to  gain information  on the  young man  that might  be of  use
later. What  better way  to accomplish  both objectives  then to  live
among the Field Magi in the village of Walren?

    Saryon agreed to the arrangements calmly and quietly, a doomed man
accepting his fate.  He had  decided, after  serious reflection,  that
this business  about Joram  was  all a  sham.  There seemed  no  other
reasonable explanation. He simply could not fathom why the Bishop  was
going to all this trouble to track down one Dead young man, even if he
was a murderer.

    Saryon had simply outlived  his usefulness to  the Order and  this
was Vanya's way of eliminating  him swiftly and silently. Such  things
were not unusual.  Catalysts had  disappeared before.  The Bishop  had
even taken the trouble to establish a witness in this wretched  Father
Tolban, who would relate that Saryon had died in a heroic cause.  Thus
Saryon's mother's spirit would rest easy and not trouble Bishop  Vanya
in the night as spirits sometimes  did now that the Necromancers  were
no longer in the world to propitiate them.

    Saryon and Father Tolban arrived  in the village of Walren  within
moments after leaving the Font, traveling through the Corridors  whose
magical halls made  a journey of  hundreds of miles  seem little  more
than the placing of one foot in front of the other.

    Though it was early night when  they arrived, the Field Magi  were
in bed and asleep, according to Tolban, who was obviously nervous  and
ill at ease in  Saryon's presence. Muttering  something to the  effect
that he assumed Saryon would wish to rest as well, the Field  Catalyst
led the priest to an empty dwelling near his own.

    "The old overseer lived here," Father Tolban said in gloomy tones,
opening the door  to a burned-out  tree that had  been converted to  a
dwelling like  the others  in the  village. Slightly  larger than  the
rest, it appeared on the verge of collapse.

    Saryon glanced  inside in  bitter  resignation. Nothing  more,  it
seemed, could add to his misery.  "The overseer who was murdered?"  he
asked quietly.

    Tolban nodded. "I hope  you don't mind,"  he mumbled, rubbing  his
hands. The spring air  was chill. "But it-it's  all that's vacant,  at
present.

    What does it matter, thought Saryon wearily. "No, it's all right."

    "I'll see you at breakfast, then. Would you care to eat your meals
with me?" Father Tolban asked hesitantly. "There's a woman, too old to
work in the fields, who earns her way by doing such chores."

    Saryon was about to reply that he wasn't hungry and didn't  expect
to be, when he suddenly took notice of Tolban's anxious, pinched face.
Something occurred to Saryon then  and, remembering the pouch  someone
had thrust into his arms before he left the Font, he handed it to  the
Field Catalyst.

    "Certainly, Brother," Saryon replied. "I would be pleased to share
your table. But you must let me pay my way."

    "Deacon... this-this is too much," stammered Tolban, who had  been
eyeing the hefty sack hungrily ever since they'd arrived. The fragrant
aroma of bacon and cheese filled the air.

    Saryon smiled wryly. "We might as well eat it now. I don't believe
I will be needing it where I am going, do you. Brother?"

    Flushing, Father Tolban muttered some incoherent reply and  backed
hurriedly out the door, leaving  Saryon to stare around the  dwelling.
Once it might have  been a relatively nice  place to live, he  thought
bleakly. The wooden walls were polished, the branches that formed  the
roof gave some signs  of having been  skillfully mended and  repaired.
But its past owner had been dead a year, the dwelling allowed to  fall
into ruin. Apparently no  one had entered it  since the man's  murder;
there were remnants of its former owner scattered about in the way  of
clothes and a few personal items. Picking these up, Saryon tossed them
into the firepit, then glanced about.

    A bed, formed out of a bough of the tree, stood on one side of the
small room. A crudely shaped table and several chairs huddled near the
firepit. Branches formed a few shelves in the walls that had once been
the tree's trunk, and that was  all. Thinking of his comfortable  cell
in the Font, with its down mattress, warm fire, and thick stone walls,
Saryon gave the  bed where  the murdered  man had  slept a  shuddering
glance. Then, wrapping himself in his robes, he lay down on the floor,
and gave way to despair.

    The next morning, after sharing Tolban's meager breakfast,  Saryon
was introduced to  the cacklings  and crowings of  Marm Hudspeth,  who
considered him a wonder sent from the Almin himself. Then the catalyst
was taken outside  to meet the  rest of  his people and  to begin  his
duties.

    According to the part he was told to play, Saryon had been sent to
the fields for some minor infraction committed against the Order,  and
was supposed to appear discontented and rebellious. He was not, as has
been said, a very good liar.

    "I don't know  if I  can play this  part," he  confided to  Father
Tolban as they trudged through the mud toward where the Field Catalyst
stood patiently in line, waiting for the morning's Gift of Life.

    "What-being angry at the  Church? Angry at  the fate that  brought
you here?  Oh,  you'll play  it  all right,"  muttered  Father  Tolban
gloomily, the spring  wind whipping  his robes  about his  stick-thin,
dried-up body. "For all the good it will do you."

    And so Saryon discovered. He had  not been in Walren a day  before
he lost some  of his own  despairing misery  in his anger  at the  way
these people were forced to live.

    He had thought his own dwelling  small and cramped until he  found
that entire families  lived in shacks  no larger. Food  was plain  and
coarse and  scarce  after  the  harsh  winter.  Unlike  the  fortunate
inhabitants of the cities where  the weather is controlled, the  Field
Magi are subject  to the  whims of  the varying  seasons. In  Merilon,
surrounded by its magical dome, rain came only if the Empress  decided
that the  sunlight  had grown  tiresome,  snow fell  only  to  glimmer
beautifully in  the moonlight  on the  crystal palaces.  Here, on  the
border, there  were terrible  storms, the  likes of  which Saryon  had
never experienced.

    "The nobles  there"-Father  Tolban  glanced in  the  direction  of
distant Merilon-"fear these peasants. And with good reason." The Field
Catalyst shuddered. "I saw  them, the day  that accursed boy  murdered
the overseer. I thought they were going to murder me, as well!"

    Saryon shivered, too, but it was from the cold. The winds had been
blowing steadily off  the mountains and,  until they switched,  spring
was more  like winter.  Opening  a conduit  to Marm  Hudspeth,  Father
Tolban gave the magus sufficient Life to envelop the two catalysts  in
a cozy globe of warmth that made Saryon feel as though he were sitting
in a bubble  of flame.  But it didn't  help much.  The cold  seemingly
defied magic. It had dwelt in this shack longer than mortals. Creeping
from the floors and walls, it seeped up through Saryon's feet and into
his very  bones.  He wondered  if  he would  ever  again be  warm  and
sometimes thought, rather bitterly, that  Bishop Vanya could at  least
have told him he intended to torture him before his execution.

    "But if  the  Emperor  fears rebellion,  why  doesn't  he  improve
conditions?" Saryon asked irritably, endeavoring  to wrap his feet  up
in the skirts of his white  robes. "Give these people housing,  enough
to eat-"

    "Enough to  eat!" Tolban  looked shocked,  "Brother Saryon,  these
people are strong in magic to  begin with. I've heard it said  they're
stronger than the Albanara,  the noble wizards.  How could we  control
them if they  became stronger  still? Right  now, they  are forced  to
depend upon us  to provide  them with Life.  They must  use all  their
energy to survive. If they ever gained the means to store it up..." He
shook his  head, then,  glancing around  fearfully, he  drew close  to
Saryon. "And there's  another reason," he  whispered. "Their  children
aren't born Dead!"

    A month passed, then two. Days and nights grew warmer, and  Saryon
learned the work  of a  Field Catalyst.  Rising with  the dawn,  never
feeling as though he'd  had enough sleep,  he mumbled wearily  through
the Ritual, joined Father Tolban for a frugal breakfast, then made his
way into the fields  where the magi were  waiting. Here, the  catalyst
put into practice those mathematical  exercises he'd been taught  from
childhood. He learned to measure out Life in exact and minute degrees,
since it would never do to give a Field Magus too much. He trudged the
rows with them-uncaring  at first. It  seemed nothing could  penetrate
the depths of  his unhappiness. Even  the sight of  a small  seedling,
springing up from  the earth,  was like sunlight  streaming through  a
break in storm clouds, cheering him for only a moment, then  vanishing
into darkness once more.

    The catalyst had not  forgotten, however, the  real reason he  was
here. Mostly from  boredom and to  keep his mind  off his own  misery,
Saryon spent  the evenings  talking with  the people,  and he  had  no
difficulty in getting them to  discuss Joram. They scarcely talked  of
anything else,  in fact,  the death  of  Anja and  the murder  of  the
overseer having been a high point  in their lives. Over and over  they
related the  story  with  relish  during  the  brief  hour  they  were
permitted to socialize after their meager dinners.

    "Joram was a fey one," said  the father of the runaway Mosiah.  "I
saw him grow from a  babe to a man. I  lived with him in this  village
sixteen years, and the  words he spoke  to me I  could count upon  the
fingers of this hand."

    "How could he be among  you all that time  and you have no  notion
that he was Dead?" Saryon asked.

    They shrugged. "If he was Dead," said a woman, with a contemptuous
glance at Father Tolban. " Joram did the work, same as the rest of us.
So he didn't have Life enough in him to walk the air. Neither do  you,
Catalyst." She said this with a sneer and the others laughed.

    "He were a pretty babe," commented one.

    "And a comely man," said another. At this Saryon saw a young  girl
nod so  enthusiastically that  she blushed  red when  she noticed  him
watching her. "Or he would have  been," the older woman added, "if  he
ever smiled. But he didn't, nor laughed neither."

    "Nor cried,"said Mosiah's father. "Not even when he was little.  I
saw him take a  bad spill once-Joram was  always fallin' or  stumblin'
into things, seems like. Anyway, he  split his head clean open.  Blood
ran down his face. It liked to  knocked him silly for a bit. A  growed
man would have cried over that and  not felt the least shamed. He  had
tears in his eyes, too. By the Almin, the lad was only eight or  nine.
But he gritted his  teeth and blinked  them back. 'Damn  it, boy, '  I
said, running over to help him, 'let  out a holler or two. I would  if
I'd taken a hurt  like that. ' But  he only gave me  such a look  with
those brown eyes of his  it was a wonder I  warn't turned to stone  on
the spot."

    "It was his mother done  it to him," said  the older woman with  a
sniff. "She was  moonstruck, was  that one. Wearin'  that fancy  dress
'til it fell off  her body. Fillin' his  head with stories of  Merilon
and how he was better than the rest of us."

    "He had beautiful  hair," said  the young girl,  shyly. "And,  I-I
think I saw him smile... once.  We were working together in the  woods
and I found a wild rose. He seemed so unhappy most of the time that...
that I gave  it to  him." The  young girl  looked down  at her  hands,
flushing. "I felt sorry for him."

    "What'd he do?" The woman snorted. "Bite your hand?"

    The others snorted derisively or snickered, causing the young girl
to blush and fall silent.

    "What did he do?" Saryon asked gently.

    Glancing up at him, the girl smiled. "He didn't take it. He  acted
almost like  it frightened  him. But  he smiled  at me...  I think  he
smiled. It was more with his eyes than his lips-"

    "Foolish child," snapped the woman,  who was her mother. "Go  home
and finish your chores."

    "It's true, though," said one of the others. "I never seen hair so
thick and black on the head of any living being. But if you ask me, it
were a curse, not a beauty."

    "It  was  a  curse,"  Marm  Hudspeth  muttered,  peering  at   the
abandoned, tumbledown hovel that had  been Joram's home with an  eager
gleam in her eye. "The mother was  cursed and she passed it on to  her
son. She chewed at him,  gnawing away at his  soul. She dug her  nails
into him and sucked his blood."

    Mosiah's father laughed derisively, causing Marm to glare at  him.
"Ye've little  to laugh  at, Jacobias,"  she cried  shrilly. "Yer  own
boy's gone off  to find  him! Dead?  Yes, Joram  is Dead  and it's  my
belief Anja took the Life from him. Drew it out of his body to use  in
her own! Ye've all seen the white scars on his chest..."

    "What scars?" Saryon was about to ask. But the conversation  ended
abruptly when  Jacobias, with  a show  of magical  force Saryon  found
quite alarming considering the  magus had worked  a full day,  angrily
vanished into the air. Shaking their heads, the other Field Magi  made
their weary way to  their shacks to get  what sleep they could  before
daybreak found them back in the fields again.

    Returning to  his own  dwelling, Saryon  thought about  what  he'd
heard, beginning to  form a  picture of this  young man  in his  mind.
Product of a cursed and unholy  alliance, raised by an insane  mother,
the young man was probably half  crazed himself. Add to the fact  that
he was Dead (Father Tolban had  expressed no doubt whatsoever on  this
point), and it  was a  wonder he had  not murdered  or committed  some
other brutal act before this.

    And this was  the young  man Saryon was  supposed to  go into  the
Outland and find?

    The priest's bitterness  increased. Anything-even  the Turning  to
Stone-seemed better than this torture.

    Saryon's life at this juncture was truly miserable. Accustomed  as
he was  to spending  his days  in study,  wrapped in  the  comforting,
silent solitude of the  libraries or his warm,  secure cell, he  found
the life of a  Field Catalyst one of  bone-aching weariness, sore  and
swollen feet, and  mind-numbing monotony. Day  in and day  out he  and
Father Tolban were in the fields,  granting Life to the magi,  walking
along after  them  through the  rows  of wheat  or  corn or  beets  or
whatever it was that grew there. Saryon never knew. It all looked  the
same to him.

    At night, he lay on his hard cot, every joint and muscle  hurting.
Though desperately tired,  he could  not sleep. The  wild wind  howled
around the mean shack, whistling in through cracks and chinks that all
the magic of the magi could  never keep closed. Above the wild  sounds
of the  wind,  he  could hear  other  noises-living  noises-and  these
frightened him more than  anything else. They were  the noises of  the
beasts of the Outland, who, he was told, sometimes felt bold enough or
hungry enough to approach the village in hopes of stealing food. These
howls and growlings  made Saryon  realize that  bad as  this life  was
here, it  was nothing  compared to  the life  he had  to look  forward
to-life in the Outland. His stomach clenched every time he thought  of
it, and  he  often began  to  shake uncontrollably.  His  only  bitter
comfort was  the knowledge  that he  probably would  not survive  long
enough to suffer.

    Four  months  passed  thus-Saryon's  allotted  time  to  establish
himself as a renegade catalyst. He  didn't know whether he had  fooled
anyone or not.  Supposedly sullen, rebellious,  and hotheaded,  Saryon
generally came across as sickly and wretched. The magi were so lost in
the drudgery of their  own lives, however, that  they didn't pay  much
attention to him.

    As the day set for his departure in late summer drew near,  Saryon
had heard nothing  from the Font,  and he began  to hope that  perhaps
Bishop Vanya might have forgotten him. Perhaps just sending me here is
punishment enough,  he  thought. Surely  one  Dead young  man  doesn't
matter that much.

    Saryon determined that he would simply stay where he was until  he
heard something.  Father  Tolban still  obviously  considered  himself
Saryon's inferior, and would do whatever the priest told him.

    But this was not to be.

    Sitting alone in his cabin a few nights before he was supposed  to
leave, Saryon was startled and alarmed to see a Corridor suddenly open
before him. He knew, even before the figure materialized, who had come
to visit him, and his heart sank.

    "Deacon Saryon," the figure said as it stepped from the Corridor.

    "Bishop Vanya," Saryon said, bowing to the floor.

    Saryon saw the  Bishop glance around  his poor surroundings,  but,
beyond a raised  eyebrow, he  didn't take much  notice, his  attention
being centered on his Priest. "Soon you begin your journey."

    "Yes, Holiness," Saryon replied. He was still on the floor, not so
much from humility as from the fact that he simply did not believe  he
had the strength to rise.

    "I do not expect to hear from you for some time," Vanya continued,
standing near  the Corridor's  opening-a  black void  of  nothingness.
"Your situation among these-um-Sorcerers will be delicate and it  will
be difficult for you make contact..."

    Especially if I am  dead, Saryon thought  bitterly, though he  did
not say it.

    "Still"-Vanya  was   going  on-"there   are   ways  we   have   of
communicating with those far distant. I will not elaborate, but do not
be startled to hear from me if  I deem it necessary. In the  meantime,
try to send a message through Tolban  when you think you will be  able
to turn this Joram over to us."

    Saryon stared up at the Bishop in amazement. The young man  again!
All Saryon's pent-up misery and anger  over the last months found  its
outlet. Slowly, his bones creaking,  the priest struggled to his  feet
and faced Vanya defiantly.

    "Holiness," Saryon said respectfully but with an edge in his voice
that was born out of fear and  desperation, "you are sending me to  my
doom. At least let me die with  what dignity I can. You know I  cannot
possibly survive  even  one  night  in the  Outland.  Keeping  up  the
pretense of hunting for this... this Joram... was all very well before
an inferior but we can at least dispense with it between ourselves-"

    Vanya's face flushed, his brows  contracted. Pursing his lips,  he
drew in a deep breath  through his nose. "Do you  take me for a  fool,
Father Saryon?" he bellowed.

    "Holiness!" Saryon gasped, blanching. He had never seen the Bishop
so angry.  It  was more  frightening-at  the moment-than  the  unknown
terrors of the Outland. "I never-"

    "I thought I  had made  myself clear. The  importance of  bringing
this young man  to justice  cannot be  overemphasized." Vanya's  pudgy
fingers stabbed the air, "You, Brother Saryon, have a high opinion  of
yourself, it  seems!  Do  you  honestly  think  I  would  go  to  this
considerable expenditure of time and effort simply to divest the Order
of one  foolish priest?  I undertake  nothing with  an expectation  of
failure, I  have information  about these  practitioners of  the  Dark
Arts, Saryon. I  know they need  one thing,  and that one  thing I  am
sending them-a catalyst.  No, you will  be quite safe,  I assure  you,
Father. They will see to that."

    Saryon could not  answer. He  could only  stare at  the Bishop  in
utter confusion.  One  thought managed  to  rise  to the  top  of  the
swirling waters of his mind. Once again he wondered, what was it  that
made this one Dead young man so vitally important?

    Seeing his priest dumbfounded, Bishop  Vanya shut his lips with  a
snap and, turning, prepared to take his leave. Then he hesitated,  and
turned back again to face the catalyst.

    "Brother Saryon," the Bishop said  in a peculiarly soft voice,  "I
have pondered long whether  to tell you  this or not.  What I say  now
must not leave this room. Some of what I am about to reveal to you  is
known only  to myself  and  the Emperor.  The political  situation  in
Thimhallan is  not  good.  Despite  our  best  efforts,  it  has  been
deteriorating for years. We have it on good authority that the kingdom
of Sharakan has been  influenced by certain members  of this Coven  of
the Wheel.  They have  not  yet embraced  the  Dark Arts  that  nearly
destroyed us centuries ago, but their  Emperor has been so rash as  to
actually invite  these people  to  his kingdom.  The Cardinal  of  the
Realm, who  sought to  counsel against  this, was  dismissed from  the
court."

    Saryon stared at him, transfixed. "But why-"

    "War. To use  them and  their infernal  weapons against  Merilon,"
Vanya said with a heavy  sigh. "Thus you see how  vital it is that  we
take this young man alive and, through his trial, expose these  fiends
for what  they are-murderers  and  black-hearted Sorcerers  who  would
pervert dead objects by giving them  Life. By doing this, we can  show
the people of Sharakan that their Emperor is in league with the powers
of darkness, and we can then encompass his downfall."

    "His downfall!" Saryon clutched  at the back  of a chair,  feeling
weak and dizzy.

    "His downfall," Vanya repeated sternly. "Only then, Father Saryon,
will we be able  to prevent a catastrophic  war." He looked grimly  at
the catalyst, "You see now, I hope, the extreme urgency and importance
of your  mission. We  dare not  attack the  Sorcerers' camp.  Sharakan
would come instantly to their aid. One man must slip in, retrieve  the
boy... I chose you, one of my most intelligent brethren-"

    "I'll try not to fail you, Holiness," Saryon murmured  confusedly.
"I only wish I had known, that I were better suited..."

    Reaching out, Vanya  placed his hand  upon Saryon's shoulder,  his
expression one of earnest  caring. "I know you  will not fail,  Deacon
Saryon.  I  have  every  confidence  in  you.  I  am  only  sorry  you
misunderstood the nature of  your mission. I did  not dare explain  it
more fully. The Font has  ears, you know." He  raised his hand in  the
ritual blessing. "The elements of earth and air, fire and water, grant
you Life. The Almin be with you."

    Stepping into the Corridor, the Bishop disappeared.

    When he was gone,  Saryon's strength gave out  and he sank to  his
knees, overwhelmed by what he had heard. The thought of his own  death
had been terrifying. How much more frightening was it now to know that
the fate of two kingdoms, perhaps, rested on his shoulders?

    His mind in turmoil, he laid his head on the back of his  clenched
hands and tried to  understand what was happening.  But it was  beyond
him. How clear and simple and pure were the equations of his art.  How
neatly and logically  the world  of mathematics fell  into place.  How
dreadful it was, to step into the world of chaos!

    Yet, he had no  choice. And he would  be serving his country,  his
Emperor,  his  Church.  How  much  better  than  believing  himself  a
criminal! The thought gave him courage, and he was able to stand.

    "I need something to  do," he muttered  to himself. "Something  to
keep my mind off this or I'll think myself into a panic again." In  an
effort to compose himself, Saryon began to perform the small household
tasks around his dwelling that he had, in his despair, carelessly  put
off.

    Taking the teapot from  where it stood upon  the table, he  washed
and dried it and put  it upon the shelf. He  swept the floor and  even
had the  heart,  finally,  to  begin  packing  a  few  possessions  in
preparation for the journey. When he realized he was tired enough that
sleep would overtake him, he lay  down upon the hard cot. Closing  his
eyes, he  was just  slipping  into darkness  when a  thought  suddenly
occurred to him.

    He didn't own a teapot.

    2

    Simkin Blachloch sat at a desk within his brick dwelling, the best
and biggest in the camp, deeply absorbed in his work. Through an  open
window the morning sun shone bright upon a ledger spread open  beneath
the warlock's hand.  Soft air, sweet  with the smell  of late  summer,
accompanied the sunshine, bringing with  it sounds of rustling  trees,
the murmur of voices, the occasional shout of children at play or  the
harsh, deep laughter of  his henchmen, who  lounged about outside  his
cabin. And always, above and below the sounds of life and the seasons,
rang the sounds of the  forge, clanging rhythmically like the  tolling
of a bell.

    Blachloch noticed all of this and none of it. The least change  in
one of any of those sounds,  the switching of the wind's direction,  a
fight  among  the  children,  the  lowering  of  a  man's  voice,  and
Blachloch's ears would have pricked like a cat's. A cessation of sound
from the forge would  have caused him  to raise his  head and, with  a
soft-spoken word  of command,  send one  of his  men to  find out  the
reason why. This is what the Duuk-tsarith are trained for-to be  aware
of everything going on  around them, to be  in control of  everything,
yet manage to keep themselves above and apart from it. Thus  Blachloch
was aware of everything that occurred in the coven, thus he controlled
it, though he seldom  left his dwelling place,  and then only to  lead
his men upon their silent deadly  raids or, as had happened  recently,
on a trip to the northern lands.

    Blachloch had just returned from  Sharakan, and it was because  of
his successful negotiations there that  he was penning figures in  the
ledger. He worked  swiftly and  accurately, rarely  making a  mistake,
writing the numbers  in neat, orderly  fashion. Everything around  him
was arranged in neat, orderly fashion, from his furniture to his blond
hair, from his thoughts to his clipped, blond mustache. All was  neat,
ordered, cold, calculated, precise.

    A knock on the door did not interrupt Blachloch. Having been aware
of his man's approach for some time, the former Enforcer did not  stop
his work. Nor  did he  speak. The Duuk-tsarith  rarely speak,  knowing
well the intimidating value of silence.

    "Simkin is back," came the report through the door.

    This was  unexpected,  apparently,  for the  slender,  white  hand
writing the figures  paused an  instant, hanging  suspended above  the
page as the brain that guided it dealt swiftly with this matter.

    "Bring him."

    Whether these words were spoken or simply flashed into the guard's
head was a question no one bothered to consider when addressed by  one
of the  Duuk-tsarith,  who  were  trained in  mind  reading  and  mind
control, among other arts  suitable to those who  enforced the law  in
Thimhallan. Or, as in Blachloch's case, used the skills they had  been
taught to break it.

    The warlock did not stop in his figuring, but continued to add  up
the long columns of numbers. By the  time he had reached the end of  a
column, the knock sounded  again. He did  not answer immediately,  but
coolly and unhurriedly finished his work. Then, wiping the tip of  his
quill pen with  a clean,  white cloth,  he laid  it down  next to  the
ledger, turning it  so that the  feather faced outward  to his  right.
Then he made a motion with his hand and the door swung silently open.

    "I've brought him. He's with me-" The henchman stepped inside, saw
Blachloch's eyebrows raise  slightly, and whipped  around. No one  was
with him.

    "Damn!" the guard muttered. "He was right behind-"

    Darting out the  door in search  of his charge,  the guard  almost
collided  with  a  young  man   stepping  inside,  whose  entry   into
Blachloch's cold  and  colorless  dwelling  might  be  likened  to  an
explosion of flowers.

    "Egad, you lout," cried the young man, stepping hastily out of the
henchman's way and wrapping his cape around him protectively, "are you
going in or out?  Hah! A rhyme. I'll  make another. Lout, out!  There,
charming, isn't it? Go bathe or butcher small children or whatever you
do best. Come  to think  of it, bathing  isn't in  that category.  You
offend the snout, lout."

    Drawing a bit of orange silk from  the air, the young man held  it
to his nose, glancing about the room with the air of one who has  just
arrived at a dull party and can't decide whether to stay or leave. The
henchman made it clear, however, that he was staying by laying a  hand
on the young  man's purple sleeve  and starting to  shove him  inside.
Almost instantly, however, the guard  snatched his hand back,  yelping
in pain.

    "Ah, how sad. My fault entirely,"  said the young man, peering  at
the henchman's hand in mock dismay. "I do apologize. I call this color
Grape Rose. I only thought it up  this morning and I haven't had  time
to work on it. I  fancy I've left a bit  too much Rose in the  Grape."
Reaching out, he plucked something from the man's hand. "I thought so.
A thorn.  Suck on  it. there's  a good  fellow, I  don't believe  it's
poisonous."

    Wafting past the angry henchman, a heady smell of exotic  perfumes
clinging to him like  his own, personal  suffocating cloud, the  young
man came to stand in front of the expressionless Blachloch.

    "Do you like this ensemble?" the young man asked, turning this way
and that, perfectly undaunted by the silent black-robed figure who sat
unmoving, absorbing all around him into  his dark void. "It's all  the
rage at  court. 'Breeches'  these  are called.  Damned  uncomfortable.
Chafe my legs. But everyone's wearing  them, even the women. Why,  the
Empress said to me-What was that? Did you mutter, O Mute Master? Thank
you for the invitation, though it  could have been phrased a bit  more
eloquently. I think I will be seated."

    Dropping gracefully into  a chair opposite  Blachloch's desk,  the
young man lounged back  in it comfortably,  arranging himself to  show
off his outfit to the best advantage.  It was hard to guess the  young
man's age, it might have  been anything from eighteen to  twenty-five.
He was tall and well-formed. His hair fell in long chestnut curls upon
slender shoulders. A soft, short beard the same chestnut color hid the
weak lines  of  his chin.  A  soft  mustache adorned  his  upper  tip,
apparently for the sole purpose of  giving him something to play  with
when bored, which  was generally, and  he was dressed  in an  absolute
bouquet of  riotous  color.  His  silken  stockings  were  green,  his
breeches yellow, his  waistcoat purple, his  lacy blouse was  green-to
match the stockings-and a  mauve cape hung from  his shoulders to  the
floor, trailing behind him majestically.

    As the young man sat there, twisting the ends of his mustache, the
henchman moved over to stand behind  the chair, but, at his  approach,
the young man promptly put the orange silk to his nose and gagged.

    "Oh, I say, I can't stand this. I'm feeling nauseous..."

    With a look, Blachloch  told his man to  back off. Grumbling,  the
guard obeyed, taking  his place at  the far end  of the neat,  orderly
room. The young man, lowering the silk, smiled.

    "Change your clothes," said Blachloch.

    "Don't be such  a boor..."  the young  man started  to protest  in
aggrieved tones.

    Blachloch neither moved nor spoke.

    "You  find  my  outfit  highly  ridiculous.  You  find  me  highly
ridiculous," said the young  man cheerfully, "but  you use me  anyway,
don't you, my Lord  of Benevolence?" Slowly, the  colors of the  young
man's clothes  deepened  and darkened,  their  very shape  and  nature
changing until he  was dressed from  head to toe  in black robes  that
were an exact  copy of  Blachloch's, with only  small exceptions.  The
sleeves were  too  long and  the  hood  too big,  the  one  completely
engulfing his hands, the  other drooping down over  his eyes to  touch
his nose. Tilting his head back in order to see, the young man smiled.

    "I say, 'Halt, miscreant! '" He waved his silk in the air.  "Isn't
that what you Enforcer chaps say all the time? I rather like this-"

    "Where have you been, Simkin?" asked Blachloch.

    "Oh, out and about, hither and  yon, here and there," replied  the
young man  in bored  tones.  Reaching over,  dragging the  long  black
sleeve across the  desk, Simkin picked  up the quill  pen from  beside
Blachloch's ledger. Leaning back, he tickled himself on the nose  with
the feather, sniffed, snorted,  and finally sneezed prodigiously  with
the result that the hood flew down, completely covering his head.

    Blachloch's man in the  back of the room  made a kind of  grunting
sound, his hands clenching as though  they had the young man in  their
grasp and were enjoying their work. Blachloch still neither moved  nor
spoke aloud,  but  Simkin, pushing  back  the hood,  suddenly  shifted
uncomfortably and very carefully laid the quill back down on the desk.

    "I went to the village," he  said in a subdued voice, "You  should
have told me you were going."

    "I didn't  think  of  it." Simkin  shrugged.  His  nose  twitched.
"Ahch-" Starting  to  sneeze again,  he  caught Blachloch's  eye,  and
hastily pinched his nostrils together with a delicate hand.

    The warlock waited a moment before speaking.

    Smiling in relief, Simkin removed his fingers from his nose.

    "Someday you will go too far-" Blachloch began.

    "Choo!" Simkin's  sneeze  descended  like rain  on  the  warlock's
ledger.

    Without a word,  Blachloch reached  out his white  hand, shut  the
ledger, and stared coldly at the young man across from him.

    "Frightfully sorry," Simkin apologized  meekly. Taking the bit  of
orange silk, he began dabbing at  the desktop. "Here, let me mop  this
up."

    "Dra-ach," spoke  the warlock,  freezing Simkin  in place  with  a
motion of his hand. "Continue."

    Unable to move, Simkin made a most pathetic sound with his  frozen
mouth.

    "You can talk," Blachloch said. "Do so."

    Simkin did as  he was  told, his lips  alone moving  in his  stiff
face. His words  coming slowly as  he worked to  form them, he  looked
very much like a man having a fit. "Where... was... I? The... village.
It... is... true.  Catalyst... there."  Halting, he  cast Blachloch  a
pleading glance.

    The warlock  relented, "Ach-dra,"  he  said, removing  the  spell.
Sinking back in his chair, Simkin  massaged his jaw and felt his  face
with his  hands  as though  reassuring  himself it  was  still  there.
Glancing at Blachloch out  of the corner of  his eyes like a  punished
child, he continued sullenly,  "And he isn't going  to be there  long,
from what I've heard."

    Blachloch's face  remained expressionless,  giving the  impression
that it was only the sunlight glinting in his cold eyes that made them
gleam. "He is a renegade, as we were informed?"

    "Well, as to that"-Simkin,  feeling the atmosphere thaw  slightly,
dared to lift  the bit  of silk  and dab  at his  nose-"I don't  think
renegade quite  describes the  catalyst, Pitiful  is much  nearer  the
mark. But it  is true  that he intends  to journey  into the  Outland.
Bishop Vanya  ordered him  to go.  Which leads  me to  believe"-Simkin
leaned over the desk, lowering his voice conspiratorially-"that he  is
doing so under duress, if you take my meaning."

    "Bishop Vanya." Blachloch sent a swift glance to his henchman, who
grinned, nodded, and began to walk forward.

    "Yes, he  was  there,"  Simkin returned,  smiling  charmingly  and
leaning back in his  chair, perfectly at ease  once more, "along  with
the Emperor and  the Empress.  It was quite  a merry  party, I  assure
you," He twirled  one end  of his  mustache between  his fingers.  "At
last, I felt I was truly in  the company of my peers. 'Simkin, '  said
the Empress, 'I adore the color  of hose you are wearing. Please  tell
me the name of  the shade, so that  I may copy it...  ' 'Majesty, '  I
replied, 'I call it Night of the Peacock. ' And she said-"

    "Simkin, you  are a  liar," said  Blachloch in  an  expressionless
voice as the grinning henchman advanced.

    "No, really, 'pon my honor,"  Simkin protested, hurt, "I truly  do
call it Night of the  Peacock. But I assure  you, I wouldn't dream  of
telling her how to copy it..."

    Blachloch picked up his  pen and returned to  his work as his  man
drew nearer.

    In a flash of  color, Simkin changed back  to his exotic  clothes.
Rising to his  feet gracefully,  he glanced around.  "Don't touch  me,
lout," he said, sniffing and wiping  his nose. Then, placing the  silk
in the sleeve of his coat, he looked down at the warlock. "By the way,
Cruel and Pitiless One, would you like me to offer my services to this
catalyst as guide through the wilderness? Something incredibly nasty's
liable to snatch him otherwise. Waste of a good catalyst, wouldn't you
say?"

    Apparently absorbed in  his work, Blachloch  said without  looking
up, "So there really is a catalyst."

    "In a few weeks, he'll be standing before you."

    "Weeks?" The henchman snorted. "A catalyst? Let me and the boys go
after him.  We'll  have him  back  here  in minutes.  He'll  open  the
Corridors to us and-"

    "And the Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters, will slam shut the  gate."
Simkin sneered. "Neatly trapped you'd be  then. I can't think why  you
keep these  imbeciles around,  Blachloch, unless,  like rats,  they're
cheap to feed. Personally, I prefer vermin..."

    The henchman made a lunge at Simkin, whose coat suddenly  bristled
with thorns.

    Blachloch moved his hand; both men froze in place. The warlock had
not even looked up but continued to write in the ledger.

    "A  catalyst,"  Simkin  murmured  through  stiff  lips.   "What...
power... give us! Combine... iron and magic..."

    Raising his head, ceasing to write, though he kept his pen poised,
the warlock looked at Simkin, With a word, he removed the spell.

    "How did you discover this? You weren't seen?"

    "Of course not!" Lifting his pointed chin, Simkin stared I down at
Blachloch in injured dignity. "Am I  not a master of disguise, as  you
well know? I sat in his very hovel, upon his very table-a very teapot!
Not only did he not suspect me, he even washed and dried me and set me
on his shelf quite nicely. I-"

    Blachloch  silenced  Simkin  with  a  glance.  "Meet  him  in  the
wilderness. Use whatever  tomfoolery you  need to get  him here."  The
cold blue  eyes froze  the young  man as  effectively as  the  magical
spell. "But get him here. Alive.  I want this catalyst more than  I've
wanted anything in my  entire life. Bring him  and there will be  rich
reward. Return without him and I will  drown you in the river. Do  you
understand me, Simkin?"

    The warlock's eyes did not waver.

    Simkin smiled.  "I understand  you,  Blachloch," he  said  softly.
"Don't I always?"

    With a sweeping bow, he started to take his leave, his mauve  cape
trailing the floor behind.

    "Oh, and Simkin," Blachloch said, returning to his work.

    Simkin turned. "My liege?" he asked.

    Blachloch ignored the sarcasm.  "Have something unpleasant  happen
to the catalyst. Nothing serious, mind you. Just convince him that  it
would be unwise for him to ever think of leaving us..."

    "Ah..."  remarked  Simkin  reflectively.  "Now  this  will  be   a
pleasure. Farewell, lout,"  he said,  patting the guard  on the  cheek
with his hand. "Igh..." Making a face, he wiped his hand on the orange
cloth and swept majestically out the door.

    "Say the word..." muttered the guard, glaring through the  doorway
after the young man,  who was sauntering through  camp like a  walking
rainbow.

    Blachloch did not even deign to reply. He was, once more,  working
in the ledger.

    "Why do you put up with that fool?" snarled the guard.

    "The same  might  be asked  of  you," Blachloch  answered  in  his
expressionless voice. "And I might make the same reply. Because he  is
a useful fool and because someday I will drown him."

    3

    Lost "What was that? " Jacobias, roused from a deep sleep, sat  up
in bed and looked  around the dark hut,  searching for the noise  that
had awakened him.

    There it came again, a timid tapping sound.

    "It's someone at the door," his wife whispered, sitting up  beside
him. Her hand clutched his arm. "Maybe it's Mosiah!"

    "Humpf," the Field Magus grunted as he tossed aside the covers and
drifted effortlessly across the floor on  wings of magic. A soft  word
of command  broke the  seal on  the  door, and  the magus  peered  out
cautiously.

    "Father Saryon!" he said in amazement.

    "I-I'm sorry  to  awaken  you," stammered  the  catalyst.  "May  I
disturb you  further  and-and  invite myself  in?  It's  really  quite
urgent, imperative that I speak to you!" he added in a desperate tone,
staring pleadingly at Mosiah's father.

    "Sure, sure. Father,"  Jacobias said, backing  up and opening  the
door. The catalyst stepped inside, his tall, spare figure in its green
robes outlined for an  instant in the  light of a  full moon that  was
rising in the sky. The moonlight shone for a moment on Jacobias's face
as he exchanged glances with his startled wife, who was sitting up  in
bed, clutching  the blankets  to her  chest. Then  he shut  the  door,
extinguishing the moonlight  and plunging  the room  into darkness.  A
word from the magus,  however, caused a warm  light to glow among  the
branches of the tree that formed the ceiling.

    "Please, put that out!"  Saryon said, shrinking  away from it  and
glancing fearfully out the window.

    Completely mystified, Jacobias  did as he  was asked, dousing  the
light, leaving them in darkness once  more. A rustling sound from  the
bed indicated that his wife was getting up.

    "Can I get you some...  something. Father?" she asked  hesitantly.
"A... a cup of  tea?" What did  one say to a  catalyst who comes  into
your home at midnight,  especially one who looks  as if he were  being
pursued by demons?

    "No-no, thank you," replied Saryon.  "I..." he began, but  cleared
his throat and fell silent.

    The three stood in the dark,  listening to each other breathe  for
several moments.  Then  there was  another  rustle and  a  grunt  from
Jacobias in response  to his  wife jabbing him  in the  ribs with  her
elbow.

    "Is there something we can do for you, then, Father?"

    "Yes," said Saryon. Drawing  a deep breath,  he launched into  his
lines. "That is, I  hope so. I'm-uh-desperate,  you see, and-uh-I  was
told-that is I heard-that you had-that you might be able to-" At  this
point he  dried  up,  the  words he'd  so  carefully  prepared  flying
completely out of  his head. Hoping  they would come  home again,  the
catalyst latched onto a word he remembered. "Desperate, you see, and-"
But it  was useless.  Saryon gave  up.  "I need  your help,"  he  said
finally, simply. "I'm going into the Outland."

    If the Emperor had appeared in his hut and said he was going  into
the  Outland,  Jacobias  would  have  probably  not  been  much   more
astonished. The moonlight had crept in through the window now and  was
shining on the balding, middle-aged catalyst standing stoop-shouldered
in the center of the cabin, clutching a sack of what Jacobias realized
must be all his worldly possessions.  A noise from his wife,  sounding
suspiciously like  a smothered,  nervous  giggle, brought  a  rebuking
cough from her  husband, who said  sharply, "I think  we'll take  that
tea, woman. You'd best sit down, Father."

    Saryon shook his head, glancing out the window. "I-I must be gone,
while the moon is full..."

    "Moon'll be  up  for a  while  yet," Jacobias  said  complacently,
sinking into a chair as  his wife prepared the  tea over a small  fire
she caused to spring up in  the grate. "Now, Father Saryon"-the  magus
eyed the  catalyst as  sternly as  he might  have eyed  his  teen-aged
son-"what is this nonsense about goin' into the Outland?"

    "I must,  I'm desperate,"  repeated  Saryon, sitting  down,  still
clutching his sack of belongings to his chest. And indeed, he did look
desperate as he sat  at the crude little  table across from the  Field
Magus. "Please don't try  to stop me and  don't ask me any  questions.
Just grant me the aid I need and  let me go. I will be all right.  Our
lives are in the hands of the Almin, after all-"

    "Father," interrupted Jacobias, "I know that among your Order,  to
be sent here to the Fields is a punishment. Now, I don't know what sin
you committed, nor do I want to  know." He held up his hand,  thinking
Saryon might speak. "But, whatever it  is, I'm certain 'tis not  worth
throwing your life away. Stay here with us, do your service."

    Saryon simply shook his head.

    Staring at him a moment, Jacobias frowned. Shifting in his  chair,
he appeared uncomfortable. "I-It's not in me to talk of such things as
I'm goin' to say now, Father. Your god and I have been on fairly  good
terms, neither one of us askin' much from t'other. I never felt  close
to Him, nor  He to  me, and  I figured that's  the way  He wanted  it.
Least, that's  the way  Father  Tolban seemed  to figure.  But  you're
different, Father, some of the things  you've said have started me  to
wonderin'. When you say we're in the hands of the Almin, I can  almost
believe you mean me, too, not just yourself and t'Bishop."

    Completely taken aback, Saryon stared at the man. He had certainly
not expected this and  felt ashamed, because  it suddenly occurred  to
him that when he said, "We're in  the hands of the Almin," he  himself
didn't really believe it. Otherwise, why would he be so frightened  of
venturing out into  the wilderness? It's  just as well  I'm going,  he
thought bitterly. I'm a hypocrite now, too, apparently.

    Seeing Saryon  silent,  obviously  lost  in  reflection.  Jacobias
mistakenly assumed the catalyst was reconsidering. "Stay here with us,
Father," the Field Magus urged gently. "It's not a good life, but it's
not a  bad 'un  either. There's  lots worse,  believe me."  Jacobias's
voice lowered. "Go out there"-he nodded toward the window-"and  you'll
find it."

    Saryon bowed his head, his  shoulders slumping, his face pale  and
tight with fear.

    "I see," said Jacobias after a pause. "So that's the way of it, is
it? These words I'm sayin' are  nothin' new to you, are they,  Father.
Ye've been hearin'  them in  yer own  heart. Someone  or something  is
making you go."

    "Yes," said Saryon quietly. "Don't ask me any more, I'm a terrible
liar."

    Neither spoke  as Jacobias's  wife sent  the tea  floating to  the
table, where  it spilled  itself into  cups shaped  of polished  horn.
Sitting down beside her  husband, she took his  hand in hers and  held
onto it tightly.

    "Is it because of our son?" she asked in a frightened voice.

    Raising his head, Saryon looked at both of them, his face pale and
drawn in the moonlight. "No," he  said softly. Then, seeing her  about
to speak, he shook his head. "We do what we have to do."

    "But, Father," argued Jacobias, "we do, or should do, what we  are
suited to do! Forgive me for  speakin' blunt, Father Saryon, but  I've
seen you in t'field. If ye've been outdoors at all, it must've been in
some royal lady's rose arbor! You can't take ten steps without fallin'
over a rock! The first days you were here the sun burned you so bad we
had to lay you in the creek to bring you 'round. You was fair roasted.
And you jump at yer own shadow, Why  I never in my life saw a man  run
so fast as you did when that locust flew up in your face."

    With a sigh, Saryon nodded, but he did not answer.

    "Ye're not  a young  man anymore,  Father," Jacobias's  wife  said
kindly, her heart softened by the catalyst's look of fear and despair.
Reaching out her hand, she placed  it over Saryon's hand that  rested,
trembling, on the  table. "Surely there  must be some  other way.  Why
don't you drink your tea and go back to your bed. We'll talk to Father
Tolban..."

    "There is no other way, I assure you," Saryon said softly, with  a
quiet dignity that was apparent even through the strained look of fear
on his face. "I thank you for your kindness and... and your caring. It
is something I-I didn't expect," Rising  to his feet, leaving his  tea
untouched, he faced them. "Now, I must  please ask you to give me  the
help I need. I know  you have contacts out there.  I don't ask you  to
name them. Just tell me where to go and what I must do to find them."

    Jacobias, a look of indecision on  his face, glanced at his  wife.
Leaving her tea untouched as well,  she was staring into the coals  of
the fire. He squeezed her hand.  Without turning her gaze to him,  she
nodded her head. Rumbling deep in his throat, Jacobias rumpled up  his
hair, scratched his chin, and  finally said, "Very well, Father.  I'll
do what I can fer  you, though I'd sooner send  a man Beyond! I  would
indeed!"

    "I understand,"  Saryon  said,  genuinely affected  by  the  man's
obvious pain. "And I truly thank you for your help."

    "You are a kind  and gentle man,"  said Jacobias's wife  suddenly,
still staring into the fire. "I've seen you look at us with  something
in your eyes that says we're not animals but people to you. If-if  you
see my son-"

    She could not go  on, but began to  weep silently, "You better  be
getting gone, Father,"  Jacobias said gruffly.  "Moon's almost to  the
tops of the trees and  ye've a ways to go.  If you haven't made it  to
the river by the time she sets," he added sternly, "sit yourself  down
and wait till  mornin'. Don't  go bumblin'  about in  the dark.  Ye're
liable to tumble down a cliff."

    "Yes," Saryon  managed to  say, drawing  another deep  breath  and
smoothing the folds of his robes around him with his shaking hands.

    "Now, come  here"-Jacobias led  the catalyst  to the  door,  which
opened at his approach-"and look where I point and listen to my  words
careful, for they could mean life instead of death, Father."

    "I understand," said Saryon, holding  onto his courage as  tightly
as his hands gripped his sack.

    "See that star yonder, the one at  the tip of the stars they  call
the God's Hand. You see it?"

    "Yes."

    "That's the North Star.  It's not called  God's Hand fer  nothin',
'cause it'll point yer way, if ye  let it. Keep that star in yer  left
eye, as the saying goes. Know what that means?"

    The catalyst  shook his  head, and  Jacobias checked  a sigh.  "It
means-Never mind.  Just  do  this. Always  make  certain  yer  walkin'
straight toward the star and just a bit to the right of it like. Never
let the star get to the right of you. Understand? If so, you'll end up
in centaur land. If  they get hold  of you, you can  just pray to  the
Almin for the swiftest death there is."

    Saryon stared up into the night sky, looking at the star, and felt
suddenly dismayed. He had never looked  up into the night sky  before,
he realized. At  least, not out  here, not where  the stars seemed  so
close and so many. Overwhelmed at the vastness and immenseness of  the
universe and of his  own tiny, tiny  part in it,  it seemed to  Saryon
terribly ironic that another tiny, cold, faraway and uncaring part was
going to  lead him.  He thought  of  the Font,  where the  stars  were
studied as they affected  a person's life from  his birth. He saw  the
charts spread out on  the table, he recalled  the calculations he  had
made regarding them,  and it occurred  to him that  he had never  once
really looked at the stars as he was looking at them now. Now that his
life truly depended on them.

    "I  understand,"  he  murmured,  though  he  didn't,  not  in  the
slightest.

    Jacobias looked at him  dubiously. "Maybe I  should take him,"  he
muttered to his wife.

    Saryon glanced around quickly. "No," he said. "No, there would  be
trouble. I've stayed too  long as it is.  Someone might have seen  us.
Thank you  very much.  Both for  your help  and-and your  kind  words.
Good-bye. Good-bye. May the Almin's blessing be with you both."

    "Maybe it's not right  of me to say  this, Father," Jacobias  said
roughly, "me  not  bein' a  catalyst  an'  all, but  may  the  Almin's
blessing be with you." Flushing, he looked down at the ground. "There.
I don't reckon He'll take offense, do you?"

    Saryon started to smile, but the quivering of his lips led him  to
believe he might very well weep instead, and that would be disastrous.
Reaching out, he shook hands earnestly with Jacobias, who appeared  to
be in the throes of some dilemma,  for he was still staring at  Saryon
as though  trying to  make up  his mind  to speak  further. His  wife,
hovering near him, suddenly lifted  Saryon's hand in hers and  pressed
it to her rough lips.

    "This is for you," she  said softly, "and for  my boy, if you  see
him." Her eyes filling with tears, she turned and hurried back  inside
the mean dwelling.

    Saryon's own vision was  dim as he started  to walk away, only  to
feel Jacobias's hand on his shoulder.

    "Listen," said the Field Magus. "I-I think you should know. It may
make things a bit easier for  you. There-there are some people  who've
been... making inquiries so to speak  about you. They're in need of  a
catalyst, I fancy,  so likely  they'll be  takin 'an  interest in  you
above the ordinary, if you get my meaning."

    "Thank you,"  said Saryon,  somewhat  startled. Bishop  Vanya  had
implied much the  same thing.  How had he  known? "Where  will I  find
these-"

    "They'll find you,"  Jacobias said gruffly.  "Just remember  about
the star, though, or the first thing that'll find you will be death."

    "I'll remember. Thank you. Good-bye."

    But Jacobias was  still not easy  in his mind  apparently, for  he
held Saryon back one last instant.

    "I don't  approve  of  'em,"  he  muttered,  frowning.  "Not  from
anythin' I've seen, mind  you, just from what  I've heard. I hope  the
rumors mayn't be true. If they are,  I pray my boy hasn't got  hisself
involved. I didn't approve him goin' out there, but we had no  choice.
Not when we heard the Duuk-tsarith was being sent to talk with him..."

    "Duuk-tsarith?" repeated Saryon,  puzzled. "But I  thought he  ran
off with that young man who killed the overseer, that Joram..."

    "Joram?" Jacobias shook his head.  "Dunno who told you this.  That
strange young man  hasn't been seen  here in over  a year. Mosiah  was
hopin' to find him, that's for certain; somethin' I wasn't hopeful  of
myself. A walkin' Dead  man..." He shook his  head again. "But  that's
not what I  meant to go  on about," Holding  onto Saryon's arm,  Jacob
looked at him  earnestly. "I  didn't want  to say  nothin' about  this
round his mother. But if  the boy is in  bad company and is  followin'
ways of-ways of darkness, speak to  him, will you, Father? Remind  him
that we love him and think of him?"

    "I will, Jacobias, I will," Saryon said gently, patting the  man's
work-worn hand.

    "Thank you, Father." Jacobias cleared  his throat, and wiping  his
hand over his  eyes and nose,  he waited a  moment to compose  himself
before he went back into the shack. "Good-bye, Father," he said.

    Turning, he  stepped back  inside and  shut the  door behind  him.
Looking into the window, for a  moment unwilling to leave, Saryon  saw
the Field Magus and his wife standing in the moonlight that beamed  in
through their window. He saw Jacobias take his wife into his arms  and
hold her close. He heard her muffled sobs.

    Sighing, Saryon clutched his sack  and started walking across  the
fields, his eyes on the stars and, occasionally, on the vast  darkness
to which the stars were drawing him. His feet stumbled over the uneven
ground that was  nothing to  him but  patches of  white moonlight  and
black shadow. Reaching the edge of the village, he looked out over the
fields of wheat that stirred gently in the breeze like a moonlit lake.
Turning, Saryon glanced back one last time at the village, at his last
contact, perhaps, with humanity.

    The tree dwellings  sat stolidly on  the ground, their  interlaced
branches casting eerie, intricate shadows in the moonlight. There were
no lights within the shacks; the faint light gleaming from  Jacobias's
window went out as Saryon watched. Too tired to dream, the Field  Magi
slept.

    For an instant, the catalyst thought  he might run back. But  even
as he gazed at the peaceful  village, Saryon realized he couldn't.  He
might have, an hour earlier, when the fear inside of him had been very
real. But not now. Now he could turn and walk away from them, turn and
walk away from  everything in his  past life. He  would walk into  the
night, guided by that  tiny, uncaring star above.  Not because he  had
discovered any newfound courage.  No. It was a  reason as dark as  the
shadows of the moonlit trees that  rustled about him. He could not  go
back, not until he had the answer.

    Bishop Vanya lied to him about Mosiah. Why?

    That nagging question  and its attendant  dark shadow  accompanied
Saryon into the wilderness, proving a valuable companion, for it  kept
the catalyst's mind  occupied and forced  his other  companion-fear-to
straggle along behind. Keeping one eye on the star, a feat that proved
increasingly difficult  for  the catalyst  as  he plunged  deeper  and
deeper into the thick forests,  Saryon pondered this question,  trying
to find excuses,  trying to find  explanations, only to  be forced  to
admit to  himself  that there  were  no excuses  and  that he  had  no
explanation.

    Bishop Vanya had lied, that much  was quite clear. What was  more,
it had been a conspiracy of lies.

    Stopping for a moment  to rest, Saryon sank  down on a boulder  to
massage his  aching and  cramping leg  muscles. The  strange,  ominous
sounds of the forest  growled and whispered about  him but Saryon  was
able to ignore  them by  going back, in  his mind,  to Bishop  Vanya's
chambers in the Font the day he  had been called there to hear  Father
Tolban's story. Vanya's words came to him clearly, mercifully drowning
out a low snarl from some  predatory animal stalking its prey  through
the night.

    It seems that  this Joram had  a friend- Saryon  could hear  Vanya
quite plainly-a  young  man called  Mosiah.  One of  the  Field  Magi,
hearing noises in the  night, woke and looked  out his window. He  saw
Mosiah and  a  young  man  he  is  positive  was  Joram  engrossed  in
conversation. He could not hear all of what was said, but be swears be
overheard the word "Coven"  and "Wheel". He said  Mosiah drew back  at
this, but  his friend  must  have been  persuasive because,  the  next
morning, Mosiah was gone.

    Yes, Mosiah  had gone.  But  not because  of  Joram. He  had  fled
because of rumors that the Duuk-tsarith were interested in him.

    A shrill  scream behind  Saryon,  cut off  suddenly by  a  furious
growl, had the  catalyst up off  his boulder and  running through  the
forest before he  was quite aware  of what had  occurred. When he  was
once more master of himself, he drew several deep breaths to calm  his
rapidly beating  heart. Forcing  himself  to slow  down, he  took  his
bearings on  the  star that  he  could  barely make  out  through  the
branches above him  and discovered  to his  dismay that  the moon  was
setting.

    The catalyst recalled Jacobias's  warning against wandering  about
in the dark at almost the same time he recalled, quite clearly, Father
Tolban's furtive glance toward Bishop Vanya as the Bishop was relating
the tale about Joram and Mosiah. Saryon recalled Tolban's guilty flush
when he saw the catalyst looking at him. A conspiracy of lies.

    But why? What were they hiding?

    Suddenly Saryon had the answer.  Hurrying forward with some  vague
idea of making his way to the river before the moon set, Saryon worked
out the  mystery much  as he  worked out  his mathematical  equations.
Vanya knew Joram was in  that coven. He had  lied to conceal the  true
source of his knowledge. In fact, Saryon realized, Vanya knew lots  of
things about the coven-that they were in need of a catalyst, that they
were dealing with  the king  of Sharakan. It  was logical,  therefore,
that the Bishop had a spy  planted within the coven. That much  worked
out. But, Saryon frowned, his equation lacked a final answer.

    If Vanya had a spy in the coven, why did he need Saryon?

    Distracted by these thoughts, the  catalyst stumbled about in  his
mind nearly  as badly  as  he was  stumbling  about in  the  gathering
darkness. Coming  to  a halt,  Saryon  caught his  breath,  fixed  his
position by the star, and listened for the sound of the river. He  did
not hear it and, logic finally  convincing him that he had not  walked
far enough to reach it, he  decided to heed Jacobias's words and  rest
for the remainder of the night.

    Saryon began to look for a place to spend the hours until dawn. He
had not crossed the river yet,  and naively assumed he was  relatively
safe. Not that it would have mattered much otherwise. The catalyst was
so exhausted by both the unaccustomed exercise and the nervous  strain
and tension that he knew he could not go another step. Reasoning  that
it might be better to stay near the trail (without bothering to wonder
who or what had made the  trail), Saryon gathered his robes about  his
bony ankles  and hunched  down at  the base  of a  gigantic oak  tree,
making a  very  uncomfortable bed  between  two huge,  exposed  roots.
Drawing  his  knees  up  to  his  chin,  he  settled  himself  in  the
undergrowth and prepared to wait out the rest of the night.

    Saryon had  no intention  of  falling asleep.  He would  not  have
believed it possible that he could fall asleep, in fact. The moon  had
set and, though the stars shone brightly above him, the night was dark
and frightening around  him. Strange  noises rustled  and growled  and
snuffled. Wild eyes stared at him  and, in desperation, he closed  his
own.

    "I am  in  the  hands  of the  Almin,"  he  whispered  to  himself
feverishly. But the  words brought no  comfort. Instead, they  sounded
stupid, meaningless. What  was he to  the Almin but  just one of  many
wretched people in this world? Just one tiny being, not even as worthy
of attracting  the Almin's  notice as  one of  those bright,  gleaming
stars. For  he, poor  mortal that  he was,  shed no  light. Even  some
illiterate peasant  could  ask  for the  Almin's  blessing  with  more
sincerity than His catalyst! Saryon clenched his fists in despair. His
Church, once as  mighty and  strong to  him as  the mountain  fastness
itself, was shaking apart and crumbling around him.

    His Bishop, the man nearest his  god, had lied to him. His  Bishop
was using him, for some dark, unseen purpose.

    Shaking his head, Saryon sought to recall his studies in theology,
hoping to catch hold of the faith that was slipping away from him. But
he might as well have tried to  stop the outgoing tide by putting  his
hand in the water and catching hold of a wave. His faith was bound  up
in men, and men had failed him.

    No, be honest, Saryon told himself, quaking as the dreadful sounds
of the  night  leaped  out at  him,  dragging  all the  fears  of  his
subconscious with it, your faith was  bound up in yourself. It is  you
who have failed!

    The catalyst covered his head with his arms in bleak hopelessness.
Huddling beneath the  tree, he  listened to the  horrible noises  that
were getting nearer and waited to feel sharp teeth sink into his flesh
or to hear the  harsh laughter of the  centaurs. Slowly, however,  the
noises began to fade  away. Or perhaps he  was fading away. It  didn't
matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

    Lost and wandering in a  darkness vaster and more terrifying  than
the Outland,  Saryon  resigned  himself  to his  fare.  Worn  out  and
despairing, no longer caring whether he lived or died, he slept.

    4

    Found  Lifting  his  head  and  blinking  in  the  bright  morning
sunlight,  Saryon  stared  around  at  his  surroundings.   Completely
disoriented, he had the confused  thought that something had  spirited
away his cabin in the night, leaving him to sleep upon the ground.

    Then he heard a growling sound and everything came back to him  in
a rush, including his fear and the knowledge that he was alone in  the
wilderness. Panicked, Saryon leaped to his feet. At least-that's  what
he intended to do. As it was, he barely managed to move into a sitting
position. Pain knotted his back muscles, his joints were stiff, and he
seemed to have lost all feeling in  his legs. His robes were wet  with
the morning dew, he was  chilled and aching and thoroughly  miserable.
Groaning, Saryon laid his head back  down on his knees and  considered
how easy it would be to stay here and die.

    "I say," said a  voice in admiration, "I  know warlocks who  don't
dare spend a  night in  the Outland without  ringing themselves  round
with fiery  demons  and such  like,  and  here you  are,  a  catalyst,
sleeping like a babe in its mothers arms."

    Starting up and staring around  wildly, trying to blink the  sleep
out of his eyes, Saryon focused on the source of the voice-a young man
sitting upon a  tree stump, his  eyes regarding Saryon  with the  same
undisguised admiration as heard in  his voice. Long brown hair  curled
upon his  shoulders,  matched  by  a soft  brown  beard  and  a  sleek
mustache. He was  dressed to  blend in  with the  wilderness in  plain
brown cloak and trousers and soft, leather boots.

    "Who-who  are  you?"  Saryon  stammered,  endeavoring,  not   very
successfully, to stand up. Confused thoughts of the Field Magi  having
sent someone after him  came into his  half-asleep brain. "You're  not
from the settlement?"

    "Let me give  you a  hand," the young  man said,  coming over  and
helping the catalyst rise stiffly to his feet. "Rather an elderly chap
to be out wandering about in the woods, aren't you?"

    Saryon jerked his arm out of  the young man's solicitous grip,  "I
repeat, who are you?" he asked sternly.

    "How old are  you, if  you don't mind  my asking?"  the young  man
inquired, looking at Saryon anxiously. "Fortyish?"

    "I demand-"

    "Early forties,"  said  the  young  man,  studying  the  catalyst.
"Right?"

    "It's none of your  concern," Saryon said,  shivering in his  damp
robes. "Either answer my question or be  on your way and let me go  on
mine..."

    The young man's face grew solemn.  "Ah there, that's just it.  I'm
afraid your age is a bit of concern to me, you know, because your  way
is my way. I'm your guide."

    Saryon stared, too startled to reply. Then he recalled  Jacobias's
words: There are some people  who've been making inquiries about  you.
They're in need of a catalyst, so likely they'll be takin' an interest
in you above the ordinary.

    "My name's Simkin," said the young man, reaching out his band in a
friendly manner.  Weak with  relief,  Saryon returned  the  handshake,
grimacing as he moved  and bitterly regretting  his night spent  under
the tree.

    "If you  feel up  to traveling,"  Simkin continued  placidly,  "we
really should be moving along. Centaurs caught two of Blachloch's  men
here a month ago.  Ripped them into small  pieces not fifty feet  from
where we're standing. Ghastly sight, I assure you."

    The catalyst blanched. "Centaurs?"  he repeated nervously.  "Here?
But we're not across the river..."

    " 'Pon my  honor," said Simkin,  regarding Saryon with  amazement,
"you are a  babe in the  woods, aren't  you? Here I  thought you  were
incredibly brave and it turns out you're just incredibly stupid.  This
is a centaur  hunting trail you've  been sleeping on!  And now,  we've
really wasted enough time. They hunt  by day, you know. Well, I  guess
you don't know, but you'll learn.  Let's be off." He stood looking  at
Saryon expectantly.

    "What are you staring at me for?" Saryon asked shakily, the phrase
ripped them  into small  pieces  having made  him  go cold  all  over,
"You're the guide!"

    "But you're  the  catalyst,"  Simkin  said  ingenuously.  "Open  a
Corridor for us."

    "A C-corridor?" Saryon  put his hand  to his head,  rubbing it  in
perplexity,  "I   can't   do   that!   We'd   be   discovered.   I-I'm
desperate"-falling back on his script-"I'm a renegade..."

    "Oh, come," Simkin  said with a  shade of coolness  in his  voice,
"the farmers may believe that but I know better, and if you think  I'm
going to travel months through this godforsaken forest when you  could
get us where we're going in moments, then you are sadly mistaken."

    "But the Enforcers..."

    "They  know  when  to  look  away,"  Simkin  said,  eyeing  Saryon
shrewdly. "I'm certain Bishop Vanya's given them their orders."

    Vanya!  Saryon's  suspicions,  doubts,  and  questions-momentarily
forgotten in his predicament-flooded back. How did this young man know
about Vanya? Unless he was the spy...

    "I-I have no idea what  you are talking about," Saryon  stammered,
with an attempt at a perplexed frown. "I'm a renegade. A court of  the
catalysts sent me  to this  wretched village for  my punishment.  I've
never spoken to Bishop Vanya-"

    "Oh, this is such a  complete waste of time," Simkin  interrupted,
stroking his brown curls  with his hand and  staring moodily down  the
trail. "You've talked to Bishop Vanya. I've talked to Bishop Vanya-"

    "You've... talked... to Bishop Vanya?" Feeling his knees start  to
give way, Saryon grabbed hold of a tree branch to keep from falling.

    "Look at you," Simkin said scornfully. "Weak as a cat. And this is
the man you sent alone into the Outland!" he cried, appealing to  some
unseen being. "Of course I've  talked to Vanya," Simkin said,  turning
back to Saryon. "His Tubbiness laid his plans out quite clearly before
me. 'Simkin, ' he said, 'I  would be grateful, eternally grateful,  if
you would assist me in  this little matter. '  'Bishop, old chap, '  I
replied, 'I'm yours to command, '  He would have hugged me, but  there
are some things I draw the line  at, and being hugged by fat bald  men
is one."

    Saryon stared at the young man in amazed confusion, feeling  dizzy
and only half comprehending  what he'd said. This  is insane, was  the
first clear thought that came to him. This... Simkin talking to Bishop
Vanya? His Tubbiness! Yet Simkin knew...

    "You must be the spy!" Saryon blurted.

    "I must, must I?" Simkin said, regarding him with a look both cool
and mysterious.

    "You've as much as  admitted it!" Saryon  cried, grasping hold  of
the young man's arm. Aching,  frightened, and exhausted, the  catalyst
had reached his  limit. "Why  is Vanya sending  me? I  must know!  You
could bring him Joram, if that's all  he wants! Why did he lie to  me?
Why the tricks?"

    "Now look  here,  old boy,  calm  down," said  Simkin  soothingly.
Suddenly serious, he laid  his hand over Saryon's  and drew him  near.
"If what you say is  true and I am working  for Vanya, and, mind  you,
I'm not saying I am-"

    "No, of course not," Saryon muttered.

    "-then you must know  that my life would  be worth less than  that
truly slovenly  looking  garb you're  wearing  if anyone  back  at"-he
nodded in  what  Saryon  presumed  was the  direction  of  the  covens
settlement-"found out. Not that  I care about myself,"  he added in  a
low voice, "but it's my sister."

    "Sister?" Saryon asked weakly.

    Simkin nodded, "They're holding her captive," he whispered.

    "The Coven?" Saryon was growing more confused, "The Duuk-tsarith!"
hissed Simkin. "If I fail..." Shrugging, he grasped himself around the
neck and twisted his hands. "Snap," he said gloomily.

    "That's dreadful!" Saryon gasped.

    "I could turn Joram over to  them," Simkin continued with a  sigh.
"He trusts me, poor lad.  I'm his best friend,  in fact. I could  tell
them all they wanted to know  about the negotiations with the  Emperor
of Sharakan. I could help expose these Technologists for the murderers
and blackhearted Sorcerers that  they are. But  that's not what  we're
after, is it?"

    Saryon deemed  it safer  not  to reply,  since  he wasn't  at  all
certain what he was after. He  could only stare at Simkin dumbly.  How
did he know all of this? Vanya must have told him...

    "It is  a deep  game  we play,  brother," said  Simkin,  clutching
Saryon's arm. "Deep and dangerous, You are in it with me, the only one
I can trust." He caught his breath  in a choking sob. "I am  thankful,
thankful not to be alone anymore!"

    Throwing his arms  around the  catalyst, Simkin laid  his head  on
Saryon's shoulder and began to weep.

    Taken aback  by this  unexpected  development, Saryon  could  only
stand helplessly in the  middle of the forest,  patting the young  man
awkwardly on the back.

    "There, I'm all right," Simkin said bravely, straightening up  and
wiping his face. "Sorry for  falling apart. It's this beastly  strain.
It will be better now that I have somebody to talk to. For the  nonce,
however, we really must be running along!"

    "Yes," muttered Saryon, still feeling vastly confused, "but  first
please tell me why they sent me-"

    "Listen!" said Simkin in a tense voice, grabbing hold of  Saryon's
arm again. "Did you hear that?"

    Saryon froze, every sense alert. "No, I-"

    "There it was again!"

    "I didn't hear-"

    "Centaurs! Not a doubt of it!" Simkin was pale, but controlled. "I
was born  in these  woods! I  can hear  a squirrel's  breath at  fifty
paces. Come on!  Open the Corridor.  Here, use my  Life force. I  know
where we're going. I'll visualize the destination."

    Saryon hesitated, still uncertain about using the Corridor when he
knew the Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters, would certainly be  monitoring
it. He didn't trust this young man or his wild tales, although he  had
no other explanation for Simkin's extraordinary knowledge than that he
must be a spy. Still, before he opened the Corridor- Suddenly,  Saryon
did hear something, or thought he did! A crashing sound, as of  hooves
galloping down  the  trail!  There  seemed  no  choice  now.  Gripping
Simkin's arm, the catalyst  drew on the  young man's Life  force-never
noticing,  in  his  excitement,  that  it  was  unusually   strong-and
stammered out the words that opened  the Corridor. The void opened,  a
patch of stark nothingness gaping in  the middle of the trail.  Simkin
leaped inside, dragging the catalyst with him.

    The void elongated,  condensed, and  shut, leaving  the forest  to
murmur and rustle in peaceful, morning tranquility behind them.

    "Where are  we?"  asked Saryon,  stepping  cautiously out  of  the
Corridor.

    "Deep, deep in the Outland," said Simkin softly, keeping his  hand
on Saryon's arm  as he  stepped out.  "Watch every  step, guard  every
word, search every shadow."

    The Corridor  closed  behind  them.  Saryon  glanced  back  at  it
nervously, half expecting the Thon-Li to leap out and apprehend  them.
Perhaps he was hoping  someone would come out  and apprehend them,  he
admitted to himself miserably. But no one did.

    The two  had  reached their  destination  safely-that  destination
being, as far as  Saryon could see, a  swamp. Around them, tall  trees
with thick,  black  trunks rose  up  out  of murky  black  water.  The
catalyst had  never seen  such trees  in his  life. Shining  wet  with
slime, the  trees' twisted  limbs curled  round and  about each  other
until one tree was  so entangled in  the arms of  another that it  was
impossible to tell where a single tree left off and its cousin  began.
The strange trees had no leaves, only twisting tentacles that shot out
from the branches  and dipped  down into  the water,  like long,  thin
tongues.

    "This... this isn't... the Coven?" Saryon asked nervously, feeling
his feet sink into the boggy ground.

    "No, of course not!" Simkin whispered.  "It would never do now  to
appear suddenly  in  the  middle  of the  Coven,  stepping  out  of  a
Corridor, would it? I  mean, people would  ask questions. And  believe
me," he said, an unusually grim  note hardening his voice, "you  don't
want Blachloch asking you questions."

    "Blachloch?" Saryon lifted his foot from the muck, and immediately
a puff of foul-smelling gas burbled to the surface where his foot  had
been. Gagging, the catalyst covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve
of his robe, watching in horrible fascination as oozing ground  rushed
in to cover his tracks.

    "Blachloch? Head of the Coven," said Simkin with a tight, strained
smile. "Duuk-tsarith,"

    "An Enforcer?"

    "Former  Enforcer,"  Simkin  said  succinctly.  "He  decided   his
talents-and they are  considerable-could be used  more profitably  for
himself than his Emperor. So he left."

    Shivering in  the dank,  chill air  of the  dark, tangled  forest,
Saryon gathered his robes  closer around him  and stood looking  about
despairingly, wondering if there were snakes.

    "You'll learn more about him... much more... all too soon," Simkin
said darkly.  "Just remember,  my  friend"-he gripped  the  catalyst's
arm-"Blachloch is a dangerous man. Very dangerous. Now, come this way.
I'll lead. Keep behind me and step exactly where I step."

    "We have to walk through this?" Saryon asked bleakly.

    "Not far.  We're near  the  village, this  is  part of  the  outer
defenses. Mind where you step."

    Looking at the black water gurgling up in the imprint left  behind
by Simkin's foot  in the muck,  Saryon was careful  to obey the  young
man's instructions. Creeping  along behind him,  the blood pulsing  in
his throat and  his heart  beating painfully, the  once sheltered  and
secluded catalyst stared around at his surroundings in a vague kind of
dreamlike horror. Something stirred in his mind, memories of childhood
stories told to  him by the  House Magus when  she put him  to bed  at
night. Stories of the creatures  of enchantment that had been  brought
from the Dark Land of the ancients-dragons, unicorns, sea serpents. It
was in places like this that they lived. They had terrified him  then,
lying safe in  a warm  bed. How much  more terrifying  were they  now,
perhaps watching at this very moment!

    Saryon had never supposed himself an imaginative man, locked as he
was into his cold, logical,  and comfortable cell of mathematics.  But
now he realized that his imagination must have been hiding beneath the
bed, because now it leaped out, ready to astound and frighten him.

    "This is ridiculous,"  he told  himself firmly,  trying to  remain
calm, even as  he was positive  he saw  the shining scaled  tail of  a
dreadful monster  slither  away  in  the murky  water  of  the  swamp.
Trembling from fear and damp and cold, he kept his eyes on Simkin, who
was walking swiftly ahead of  him, seemingly confident of every  step.
"Look at him. He's my guide. He knows where he's going. I have only to
follow-"

    The catalyst slowed, looking about  him more intently, his  senses
now completely alert. Of course! How had he missed it at first?

    "Simkin!" Saryon hissed.

    "What is  it, O  Bald and  Quivering One?"  The young  man  turned
around carefully, looking annoyed at being stopped.

    "Simkin, this forest is under an enchantment!" Saryon gestured. "I
can tell! I can sense the magic. It's unlike anything I'm used to!" So
it was. The magic  was so pervasive, Saryon  almost felt smothered  by
it.

    Simkin appeared uncomfortable. "I...  I suppose you're right,"  he
muttered, glancing about at  the mist drifting up  from the water  and
twining round about the  twisting trees. "I... believe  I did hear  at
one time that this forest was... er... enchanted, as you say."

    "Who laid it? The Coven?"

    "N-no," Simkin admitted. "They don't go in for that sort of thing,
generally. Plus we haven't had  a catalyst around, like yourself,  you
know, so it would have been rather difficult-"

    "Then who?" Saryon came to a halt, staring at Simkin suspiciously.

    "I say, old chap, I suggest you keep moving."

    "Who?" Saryon repeated angrily.

    Smiling and shrugging, Simkin pointed at the catalyst's feet.

    Looking down,  Saryon  was alarmed  to  note that  he  was  slowly
sinking into the bog.

    "Give me your hand!" said Simkin, tugging at the catalist. It took
considerable effort to drag Saryon's feet  free of the muck and,  when
they did, the ground let loose with  a sucking pop as though angry  at
having to release its prey.

    Thoroughly frightened, there  was nothing for  the catalyst to  do
but keep stumbling after Simkin,  though Saryon was so oppressed  with
the stifling sensation of the heavy enchantment that he could scarcely
breathe. It  seemed it  was  sucking the  Life  out of  him  unbidden,
draining his strength.

    "I must rest," Saryon gasped, staggering through the black  water,
his wet robes burdening him like a heavy weight.

    "No, not now!" Simkin said insistently. Turning, he caught hold of
Saryon's arm and pulled him on. "There's firmer ground, just a  little
farther..."

    Clasped firmly in the young man's grip, Saryon trudged wearily on,
noticing as he went that Simkin was having no trouble walking, but was
moving  lightly  over  the  surface,  his  boots  barely  leaving  any
impression at all.

    "After  all,  he  is  a  magus,"  Saryon  told  himself  bitterly,
floundering after him. "Probably a wizard..."

    "Here we are," said  Simkin brightly, coming to  a halt. "Now  you
can rest a bit, if you must."

    "I must," Saryon said, thankful  to feel solid ground beneath  his
feet. Following Simkin up  onto a small round  knoll that rose out  of
the bog, Saryon wiped  the chill perspiration from  his face with  his
sleeve and, shivering, glanced about their surroundings. "How far-" he
began when suddenly,  his breath  catching in  his throat,  he made  a
strangled sound. "Run!" he cried.

    "What?" Simkin whirled around, crouching, prepared for any enemy.

    "Get... out!" Saryon managed to gasp, trying to move his feet  but
feeling the enchantment drawing him slowly and inexorably down.

    "Get out of what?"  Simkin's voice seemed to  come from far  away.
The mist was rising and swirling around them.

    "Ring... mushrooms!"  Saryon shouted,  falling  to his  hands  and
knees as the ground shivered  and quaked beneath his feet.  "Simkin...
look..."

    With a last, desperate  lunge, the catalyst  tried to escape  from
the magical ring by  flinging his body outside  it. But as he  lurched
forward, the ground gave way and he fell. His fingers scrabbled for an
instant among the mushrooms as he  sought frantically to hold on,  but
the enchantment was irresistible, drawing him down, down...

    The last  thing  he heard  was  Simkin's voice,  sounding  ghostly
through the whirling mist.

    "I say, old boy, I believe you're right. Frightfully sorry...

    "Simkin?" whispered Saryon into the impenetrable darkness.

    "Here, old boy," came a cheerful response.

    "Do you know where we are?"

    "I'm afraid  so. Try  to  be calm,  will you?  Everything's  under
control."

    Calm. Saryon closed his  eyes and drew a  deep breath, seeking  to
slow the beating  of the  heart that  was lurching  unsteadily in  his
chest. His mouth was dry, it hurt to breathe. He was standing on  firm
ground, however, which was some comfort,  even though when he put  his
hands out  and groped  about in  the darkness  he could  feel  nothing
around him. He could sense  nothing around him either-nothing  living,
that is. For, oddly enough, his entire being pulsed and throbbed  with
magic-the source of the enchantment... as Simkin must have known.

    When he thought  he could  speak in a  relatively normal  sounding
voice, with only the hint of a quiver, he began, "I demand to know-"

    At that moment, Saryon's vision literally exploded with light  and
sound. Torches  flared, stars  seemed to  shout from  the sky  and  go
flitting about him. Specks  of green fire zoomed  before his eyes  and
danced in his head. Brilliant  bursts of white phosphorus blinded  him
as trumpet blasts deafened him. Reeling backward, he covered his  eyes
with his hands and heard laughter tingle and sparkle around him, while
other, deeper laughter, boomed and shouted.

    Blinking and  rubbing his  eyes, trying  to see  in the  dazzling,
smoky atmosphere that  was somehow light  and dark at  the same  time,
Saryon heard a deep, low voice flowing out of the laughter like a cool
river running through a vast, echoing cave.

    "Simkin, my sweet,  pretty boy,  you have returned.  And have  you
have brought me my desire?"

    "Well, er, not  exactly. That  is... perhaps. Your  Majesty is  so
difficult to please..."

    "I am not difficult to please. I would have settled for you."

    "Ah, come,  come, now,  Your Majesty.  We've been  over that,  you
know," Simkin answered with a catch in his breath, or so it seemed  to
Saryon, who was  still trying  to see  through the  bursting blaze  of
light. "You know I would  be... be honored, but  if I left the  Coven,
Blachloch would come searching for me and he'd find me. And then  he'd
find you. He's a powerful warlock-"

    Saryon heard a throaty growl of impatience.

    "Yes," said Simkin hastily, "I know  you could handle him and  his
men, but it would be so ugly. They have iron, you know-"

    At this,  the  darkness was  filled  with hissing  and  yammering,
dreadful to hear, while the lights blinked and flared, causing  Saryon
to shield his eyes with his hand.

    "Someday," said  the deep,  low  voice, "we  will deal  with  this
matter. But now there are more urgent needs."

    Saryon heard  a  rustling sound,  as  if someone  had  moved,  and
instantly silence fell. The dazzling, brilliant lights winked out, the
horrible noise stopped, and the catalyst was, once more, left standing
in the  darkness.  But this  darkness  was  alive, he  could  hear  it
breathing all around  him-light, quick, shallow  breaths; deep,  even,
rumbling breaths; and,  above them  all, a  soft, whispering,  throaty
breathing.

    He had no idea  what to do.  He dared not  speak or call  Simkin's
name.  The  breathing  continued  all  around  him-coming  closer,  it
seemed-and the tension built inside him until he knew that any  moment
he would fling himself into the  darkness and begin to run  aimlessly,
probably dashing himself  to pieces among  rocks- Light flared  again,
only this time it was a pleasant, yellow light that did not blind  him
or hurt his eyes.  He could see  by it, he  discovered, once his  eyes
became accustomed to it. And, looking around, he saw Simkin.

    The catalyst blinked in  astonishment. It was  the same young  man
who had found him in the  wilderness, the same brown hair curled  upon
his shoulders, the same brown mustache adorned his upper lip. But  the
brown robes  were gone,  so were  the leather  boots. Simkin  was  now
dressed in nothing hut shining green leaves that twined about his body
like ivy.  He was  facing Saryon  and regarding  the catalyst  with  a
pleading look  on his  expressive face-a  look that  changed the  next
instant when a figure emerged from  where it had been standing in  the
darkness behind Simkin.

    The figure stepped into the  pool of shimmering light, and  Saryon
forgot about young men, forgot  about Bishops, forgot about  enchanted
traps. He very nearly forgot about  breathing and it was only when  he
felt light-headed and faint did he remember to draw a deep,  quivering
breath.

    "Father Saryon, may I present  Her Majesty, Elspeth, Queen of  the
Faeries."

    It was Simkin's voice, hut Saryon could not look at him. He  could
look at only one thing.

    The woman drifted closer.

    Saryon felt  his  throat  close and  an  aching  sensation  spread
through his chest.

    Golden hair cascaded in undulating  waves to the floor, casting  a
halo of  light  about the  woman  as  she walked.  Silver  eyes  shone
brighter and  colder than  the stars  Saryon had  looked upon  in  the
night. She did not walk,  that he could see,  but she came closer  and
closer to him, filling his vision. Her naked body-and Saryon had never
in his  life  imagined  anything  so soft  and  white  and  smooth-was
wreathed in flowers. And these blossoms, which might have been used to
modestly conceal  her nakedness,  had precisely  the opposite  effect.
Hands of roses and lilacs cupped  her white breasts, seeming to  offer
those breasts to the spellbound  catalyst. Fingers of morning  glories
traced across her sleek  stomach and caressed her  shapely legs as  if
saying to Saryon, "Don't you envy us? Cast us aside! Take our place!"

    Nearer and  nearer, her  fragrance intoxicating  him, she  drifted
toward him until  she came to  rest before him,  her slim feet  barely
touching the ground. Saryon  could do nothing,  say nothing. He  could
only stare into her  silver eyes and smell  the lilacs and tremble  at
her nearness.

    Tilting her  beautiful  head  to one  side,  Elspeth  studied  him
intently, earnestly,  her  sweetly  curving lips  puckering  with  the
seriousness of  her  regard.  Raising  her hands,  she  laid  them  on
Saryon's shoulders. The movement of  her arms lifted her breasts  from
their rose  and  lilac  garden... Saryon  shut  his  eyes,  swallowing
painfully, holding himself rigid and stiff as her fingers traced along
his shoulders, down over his chest,  and around his back, "How old  is
he?" the low, throaty voice asked suddenly.

    Saryon opened his eyes.

    "Forty or so," answered Simkin cheerfully.

    Elspeth frowned, almost a pout, her lips curving downward.  Saryon
swallowed again as her  hands came to rest  lightly on his  shoulders.
"That is not too old for humans?"

    "Oh, no!" Simkin said hastily. "Not  old at all. Many consider  it
to be the ideal age, prime of life."

    Saryon, finally able to  withdraw his gaze  from the lovely  woman
before him, started to ask Simkin  what was going on-if he could  find
his voice, that is. But the  young man scowled so fiercely and  nodded
so emphatically at the Queen that the catalyst kept quiet.

    Elspeth's frown deepened, "He is thin. He is not strong."

    "He is a scholar,  a wise man," answered  Simkin quickly. "He  has
spent his life in study."

    "Indeed?" Elspeth said with interest. Saryon found himself In  the
silver-eyed gaze once more. "A wise  man. We like that. There is  much
we would learn."

    Pausing a  moment longer,  her head  tilted to  one side,  keeping
Saryon in  her  enchanting gaze,  Elspeth  at last  nodded  slowly  to
herself. "Very well," she murmured.

    Clasping Saryon's hand in her own, she drifted up, turned to  face
her people, and  floated down  to stand  beside him.  Her golden  hair
floated about him, enveloping him, her touch tingled through his  body
like a sweet, burning poison. Lifting the catalysts unresisting  hand,
Elspeth cried out, "Faeriefolk, bow down! Prepare for the celebration!
Do homage to the one we have chosen to father our child!"

    5

    The Wedding Feast  Saryon paced  back and forth,  back and  forth,
back and forth, in  the small cavern chamber  until, too exhausted  to
take another  step,  he  collapsed  onto  a  soft,  leafy  bower  and,
groaning, let his head sink into his hands.

    "I say, old boy, cheer up!  You're the bridegroom, the reason  for
the feast-not its main course."

    At the  sound of  the cheerful  voice, Saryon  raised his  haggard
face.

    "What have you gotten me into! You have-"

    "There, there, calmly, old boy, calmly," Simkin said with a  laugh
and a grin as  he entered the room.  Nodding his head casually  behind
him, he gripped Saryon's wrist tightly and jerked him up off the  bed.
"Company," he muttered under his breath.  "We can talk back here,"  he
added, steering the catalyst toward the far end of the cavern.

    Glancing over his shoulder, Saryon  saw several of the  faeriefolk
standing or flitting about the doorway, leering at him, giggling,  and
winking. With the arrival of the faeries, the cavern that up until now
had been dark and peaceful erupted into chaos. Highly sensual  beings,
faeries live literally  from moment  to moment. Their  only object  in
life is to indulge themselves in any sensation that will give them  an
instant's gratification. The  magic of  the world  flows through  them
like wine,  they live  in a  constant state  of intoxication.  Neither
rules nor morals govern their actions; no conscience guides them. Each
does as he or she pleases  without regard to others. Their only  bond,
and the only  force that  keeps their  small band  together, is  their
unswerving loyalty to their Queen. When  her mind is with them,  there
is some semblance of order. But once it is withdrawn...

    Saryon stared in shock. Where  previously a leafy, fragrant  bower
had filled one corner of the shadowy cavern, now a great pool of water
stood there, lilies and swans floating upon its surface. An  instant's
time changed the swans to horses, splashing frantically to escape  the
water, the  lilies were  parrots,  screeching raucously  and  flapping
about the caverns. And then the pool was a coach, drawn by the horses,
who came  charging straight  at the  catalyst. Shutting  his eyes  and
flinging his arms over his head with a shriek, Saryon felt the steeds'
hot breath and  heard the  thunder of  their hooves,  expecting to  be
crushed at any second. Laughter  hooted around him. Opening his  eyes,
he saw the horses change to lambs  that gamboled at his feet while  he
screamed  in  terror.  His  breath  catching  in  his  throat,  Saryon
staggered backward,  only to  feel Simkin's  arm embrace  him  firmly,
"Don't look," said the young man, forcibly turning Saryon around.

    Closing his eyes, Saryon drew in a deep breath, only to regret  it
immediately. Every smell conceivable flew up his nostrils and down his
lungs-delicate perfumes, foul odors of  decaying bodies, the smell  of
freshly baked bread.

    "What must I  do now? Quit  breathing?" he asked  Simkin. But  the
young man ignored him.

    "That's better," said Simkin, patting Saryon's hand  solicitously.
Turning to the  faeries crowded  in the doorway,  he added  by way  of
explanation, "Touch of  nerves. Man of  the cloth. Never  been with  a
woman... if you know what I mean..."

    The faeries obviously did know by the raucous noise they made.

    Blood rushed to Saryon's head. He felt dizzy, burning with  fever,
and chilled,  all at  the  same time.  Snatching  his hand  away  from
Simkin, he groaned again and tried to force himself to think clearly.

    "Best sit down, old chap,"said Simkin, guiding Saryon to the mossy
cushion that changed to a fainting couch and then to a giant toadstool
before they were even halfway near it.  "I'll see if I can induce  the
wedding guests  to  go  inflict their  attentions  on  more  deserving
personages."

    Numbly following Simkin's direction,  Saryon cast the toadstool  a
shuddering glance and sank down upon  the floor, only to find  himself
sitting upon the soft, leafy bower once more.

    He thought  of all  the dangers  he had  expected to  face in  the
Outland-everything from  being ripped  apart  by centaurs  to  falling
under a  dragon's terrible  enchantment. Being  taken captive  by  the
Faerie Queen and expected  to... to... Well,  this was something  he'd
never considered.

    "I don't even believe in the faeries!" he muttered to himself. "Or
I didn't. It's all nursery tales!"

    "The mushroom  ring! That  is how  faeriefolk trap  mortals."  The
voice of the old House Magus sang in his ears like the laughter of the
faeries. "Anyone foolish enough to  step into the enchanted ring  will
fall down, down,  down into their  caves far beneath  the ground.  And
there the poor  mortal, be  he ever a  wizard so  powerful, will  find
himself enthralled by the  faerie spells and so  he will lose his  own
magic and become a prisoner, spending  his days in luxury, his  nights
in unspeakable acts, until he goes mad from the pleasure."

    As a child, Saryon had a confused idea of what "unspeakable  acts"
might be. He recalled thinking dimly that it had something to do  with
cutting out  someone's tongue.  Even so,  it had  been a  sufficiently
frightening story to set the small  boy running away in gleeful  panic
at the sight of a mushroom in the grass.

    But I forgot. I  lost the wonder  of that little  boy. Here I  am,
lounging on a cushion of  sweet-smelling grasses and clover and  moss,
softer than the  finest couches of  the Emperor. Here  I am, my  blood
burning every  time I  conjure up  a  vision of  Elspeth, part  of  me
longing to commit those "unspeakable acts."

    Half-turning,  peering  out   through  half-open  lids,   Saryon's
unwilling gaze  was  drawn,  fascinated,  to  the  faeriefolk  in  the
doorway, whom Simkin was trying unsuccessfully to shoo away.

    "I know I am not dreaming," Saryon whispered to himself,  "because
even in my dreams, I do not have the imagination to conjure up such as
these."

    Sprouting up in  his doorway like  their enchanted mushrooms,  the
faeriefolk shifted and changed before his eyes like their mad, magical
creations.  Some   were   nearly   four   feet   tall,   with   brown,
laugh-crinkled, mischievous  faces, like  children grown  old but  not
wise. Others were tiny,  small enough to fit  in the palm of  Saryon's
hand. These  appeared as  little  more than  balls  of light,  each  a
slightly different  color. But,  on staring  at them  closely,  Saryon
thought he could detect delicate, naked, winged bodies surrounded by a
magical radiance.  And in  between these  two extremes  was an  entire
range of other faerie species, some short, some squat, some thin, some
all, some  none.  There  were  children,  too-smaller  copies  of  the
adults-and animals  of every  description who  wandered about  freely,
many appearing to serve as mounts or servants to the larger faeries.

    None of the faeries  were as tall or  looked as human as  Elspeth.
But  that  wasn't   unusual,  according  to   Saryon's  nursery   tale
remembrances. Just as the queen bee  is the largest and most  pampered
in the hive, so the Faerie Queen is tall and voluptuous and beautiful.
For the  same reason,  he guessed,  his face  burning-to continue  her
species. Without  a Queen  to guide  them, the  irresponsible  faeries
would die.  The Queen  must, therefore,  mate with  a human  male  and
produce a child...

    Saryon put his head in his hands, trying to blot out the sight  of
the leering grins and the flitting lights.

    But he couldn't blot out their voices.

    So different are the varieties  of faeriefolk and so varied  their
voice  range  and  pitch-from  squeaking  sounds  like  mice  to  deep
rumblings like frogs-that Saryon was bewildered and even uncertain  as
to whether  or  not they  were  all  speaking the  same  language.  He
couldn't understand a word but, he noticed, Simkin could. Simkin could
not only understand them, but he could converse with them as well.  He
was doing so now,  sending them into gales  of merriment. Writhing  in
embarrassment, Saryon could just imagine what he was telling them.

    Explain this  logically, Saryon,  he told  himself. Explain  this,
catalysts, with all the books in your libraries. Explain these  people
away, and then explain to yourself why you are watching them dance  in
your flower-filled  bower.  Explain why  you  are thinking  of  losing
yourself in  this  sweet  prison,  of yielding  to  that  soft,  white
flesh...

    No! The yammering  and twittering  and giggling  was beginning  to
tear his  nerves  to shreds.  I've  got to  get  out of  here!  Saryon
realized wildly, getting a grip on reality. I'm going mad, as the  old
stories said. But how?  Simkin is in league  with them! He brought  me
here! But even as Saryon thought this, a vision of Elspeth came to his
mind-swelling  breasts,  soft  skin,  warmth,  sweetness,   perfume...
Frantically, Saryon started up from the  cushion of moss, the look  on
his ashen  face one  of  such panic  and  determination to  flee  that
Simkin,  catching  a   glimpse  of   him,  shoved   the  faerie   folk
unceremoniously out into the hallway and slammed shut the oaken door.

    "Let me out!" Saryon cried in a hollow voice.

    "Now do be reasonable, my dear fellow," began Simkin, standing  in
front of the door.

    Saryon did  not answer.  Grabbing hold  of the  young man  with  a
strength born of desperation, he threw him to one side.

    "Sorry to do  this, but you  must listen to  reason," Simkin  said
with a sigh. Speaking  several words in the  birdlike language of  the
faerie, he watched with a sigh as the oaken door began to dissolve and
reshape itself  into part  of the  cavern wall  just as  the  catalyst
lunged against it.

    Groaning in  pain, feeling  his  reason start  to slip  away,  the
catalyst let his body slide slowly to the floor.

    "Don't take it  so hard,  old chap," Simkin  said, squatting  down
beside him and  laying a  reassuring hand on  Saryon's shoulder.  "I'm
going to get us out of this predicament. You've just got to give me  a
little time, that's all."

    Casting the leafily clad young  man a bitter glance, Saryon  shook
his head and did not reply.

    Simkin's voice  quavered.  "I  see.  You  don't  trust  me.  After
everything I've done for you... What we've been to each other..."  Two
great tears rolled  down into his  beard. "I've thought  of you as  my
father... My poor  father. He and  I were very  close, you know,"  the
young man said in choked tones, "until the Enforcers came and  dragged
him away!" Two more  tears trickled down his  face. Covering his  face
with his hands,  Simkin stumbled  across the  room and  landed on  the
cushion of leaves, sending up a shower of fragrant blossoms. "You know
what they'll do to my sister if I don't get you back to the Coven!" he
sobbed. "Oh, this is too much to bear! Too much!"

    Staring at the young man in amazement, Saryon was completely at  a
loss. Finally,  the catalyst  stood up  and walked  across the  cavern
floor. Coming  near  the weeping  young  man, Saryon  clumsily  patted
Simkin on the shoulder.

    "There, now," the catalyst said awkwardly, "I didn't mean to  hurt
you. I-I'm just distraught, that's all."

    No response.

    "Can you blame  me?" Saryon  asked feelingly. "First  you lead  us
into an enchanted forest-"

    "That was  an  accident,"  came  a muffled  voice  from  amid  the
flowers.

    "Then the mushroom ring-"

    "Anyone can make a mistake."

    "Then the next thing I see you are dressed like one of them?

    "Only being hospitable-"

    "The Queen calls you by name,  you speak their language. You  even
joke with them,  for 'Min's sake,"  Saryon concluded in  exasperation,
losing his patience and committing  an unforgivable sin by taking  the
god's name in vain. "What am I supposed to think?"

    Sitting up, Simkin peered at him with red-rimmed eyes. "You  might
have given me the  benefit of the doubt,"  he said, sniffing. "It  can
all be explained, I assure you. Only... well... there isn't much  time
now," he added hastily, wiping away his tears. "You don't have a comb,
do you?" Glancing at Saryon's bald head, he sighed. "Stupid  question.
I'll have  to make  do, I  guess,  though I  look a  perfect  fright."
Picking twigs out of his hair and beard, Simkin began combing  through
his curls with a  forked stick that he  plucked from the bower  "You'd
better get ready, too," he stated,  glancing at Saryon. "I say,  can't
you come up with anything better than those drab robes? I've an  idea!
Open up a conduit to me! I'll  have you decked out in no time!  Leaves
from the...  um...  copper maple.  That  would do  quite  nicely.  Not
ostentatious in the  least. A  pine bough in  the strategic  location.
Perfect thing. The pine needles itch a little at first, but you'll get
used to it. Oh, come on! After all, you are getting married-"

    "I am  not!"  cried  Saryon,  springing to  his  feet  and  pacing
feverishly about the sealed cavern chamber.

    "Well, of course not," Simkin said with a light little laugh  that
cracked  about  halfway  through.  Clearing  his  throat,  he  glanced
hopefully  at  the  pale-faced  catalyst.  "I  mean,  it  wouldn't  be
unthinkable, would it?  Elspeth is  really quite  charming, don't  you
know? A great personality, not to mention-"

    Saryon shot him a vicious glance.

    "Yes, you're right. Unthinkable," Simkin said firmly.  "Therefore,
I have a plan. Everything all  arranged. My sister... you know..."  he
added in low tones. "Life at stake. I believe I mentioned how they are
holding her captive-"

    "What do  we do?"  Saryon  asked, wearily  cutting Simkin  off  in
mid-tragedy.

    "Wait for my signal," said  Simkin, standing up and arranging  his
leaves in a fashionable manner. "Ah, here they are, come to escort the
bridegroom to his blushing bride."

    "What will  the signal  be?" Saryon  whispered as  the stone  door
began to dissolve. Outside, he could see flaming torches surrounded by
thousands of dancing, blinking  lights and he  could hear hundreds  of
shrill, deep, soft, loud voices  raised in eerie, enchanting song.  At
the far end of  the vast, flower-decked cavern,  he could barely  make
out the figure of  Elspeth, seated on  a throne made  of a living  oak
tree, her golden hair glistening in the torch light.

    Saryon swallowed, "The signal?" he repeated hoarsely.

    "You'll know it," Simkin assured  him. Taking the catalyst by  the
arm, he led him forward into the presence of the Faerie Queen.

    "More wine, my love?"

    "N-no, thank you,"  stammered Saryon,  putting his  hand over  the
golden goblet. Too late. With a  word, Elspeth caused the cup to  fill
to overflowing  with the  sweet, blood-red  liquid. Grimacing,  Saryon
snatched his hand away and wiped it surreptitiously on his robes.

    "More honeycomb?" Some appeared on his golden plate.

    "No, I'm-"

    "More fruit, meat,  bread?" Within seconds,  the plate was  heaped
with delicacies, their rich aroma blending with the other smells-smoke
of torches,  steaming  platters of  roast  meat, and,  near  him,  the
fragrance of Elspeth herself, dark, musky, more intoxicating than  the
wine. "You've eaten nothing!" she said  to him, leaning so close  that
he could feel her hair brush against his cheek.

    "Really, I'm-I'm not hungry," Saryon said in a feint voice.

    "I expect you are nervous," Elspeth said, her lips curving into  a
smile, her eyes inviting  him to draw nearer  still. "Is it true  that
you have never lain with a woman?"

    Saryon flushed redder than the  wine and cast an irritated  glance
at Simkin, who was sitting next to him.

    "I had to tell  them something, old boy,"  Simkin muttered out  of
the corner of his  mouth, draining his  goblet. "They simply  couldn't
understand  why  you  carried  on   so  when  their  Queen  made   the
announcement about  you fathering  the child  and so  forth. All  that
hand-waving and shouting.  You were lucky  they just put  you in  that
little room to cool off. Once I explained-"

    "Why are you  bothering with that  fool? Pay attention  to me,  my
love," Elspeth said in  a soft voice, catching  hold of the fabric  of
Saryon's robe  and tugging  him toward  her. She  moved in  a  playful
manner, her voice was soft and  sultry, yet her words chilled  Saryon.
"I will be very good  to you, my own, but  remember-you are my own!  I
need, I demand, your complete attention. At all times, day and  night,
every thought you think must be of me. Every word you speak must be to
me." Lifting his hand, she  rubbed it against her petal-smooth  cheek,
"Now, my own, since you will not eat  and since it is too early to  go
to the bridal bower-"

    "When-when is that?" Saryon asked, flushing.

    "Moonrise," said  Simkin,  watching the  wine  level rise  in  his
goblet again with appreciative eyes.

    Elspeth gave him an  angry glance but, at  that moment, a  riotous
clamoring broke out on the other side of the Faerie Queen, momentarily
distracting her. Taking advantage  of the opportunity, Saryon  grabbed
hold of Simkin's shoulder.

    "Moonrise! That's less than an hour!"

    "Yes," said Simkin, staring into the wine.

    "We've got to get out of here!" Saryon whispered frantically.

    "Soon," murmured Simkin.

    Saryon dared not  pursue the  matter further, for  the quarrel  or
joke or whatever it had been was quieting down. Trying to keep hold of
himself, all the while feeling as if he was about to scream and  fling
himself into the  center of the  table, Saryon decided  that a sip  of
wine might be beneficial.

    Lifting the  goblet to  his lips,  trying to  keep his  hand  from
shaking, he stared about him with the dazed look of a sleepwalker.  He
had attended revels  in court.  He had attended  what were  considered
wild revels in court-All Fools' Day, for example, when supposedly  all
propriety is cast to the wind.  But staring at the madness and  mayhem
going on before him, his senses were literally so overwhelmed that  he
could not comprehend it completely, but  saw it in blurs of color  and
bursts of noise and flares of light.

    Every conceivable activity was going  on around him, from  pitched
battle being fought in the center of the table to shameless lovemaking
on couches.  Bears  danced in  the  aisles, acrobats  juggled  flaming
brands, children sang bawdy  songs, food splattered  on the walls  and
floors and ceilings. Looking over here, he was horrified; looking over
there, he was embarrassed; looking somewhere else, he was nauseated.

    "Are you thinking of me?" whispered a sweet voice in Saryon's ear.

    The catalyst started. "Of course," he answered hastily, turning to
face Elspeth, who smiled and, inserting her hand up the sleeve of  his
robes, softly caressed his arm. And as he looked at her, the  catalyst
noticed something. Though all might  be chaos around her, she  herself
was a haven of peace, of restfulness.  He felt drawn to her to  escape
the madness.

    "And now," she said, slightly pouting.  "You will tell me why  you
have never been with  a woman. You  enjoy my touch,  I can tell,"  she
added, feeling Saryon's muscles tense involuntarily.

    "It-it is not  the... custom... of  my people," stammered  Saryon,
licking his dry lips and breaking free  of her grasp to reach for  his
wine goblet again. "Such... mating... is  done by animals, but not  by
civilized... men and-uh-women."

    "I had heard  something of  this," said Elspeth,  her silver  eyes
gleaming with laughter and amazement, "but I did not believe it."  She
shrugged, her breasts,  decked with  lilies-of-the-valley, rising  and
falling with her soft breath. "How, then, do you have children?"

    "When the will of the Almin was made known to the people regarding
this matter," Saryon said, his voice shaking, "we catalysts,  together
with the Theldari, the shamans  skilled in such medicines, were  given
the knowledge to perform this rite. The granting of a life, after all,
is a sacred gift and should be  entered into only in the most...  most
reverent frame of mind." Oh, how  silly this sounded, so close to  her
soft body...

    "A truly beaut-beaut-bu'ful speech," blubbered Simkin, causing his
wine goblet to fill again. "You're  going to make a wonderful  father.
Just like mine!" Breaking down, he  laid his head on Saryon's arm  and
wept.

    "Simkin!"  hissed  Saryon,   shaking  him,   aware  of   Elspeth's
glittering-eyed gaze upon them, "Stop this! Sit up!"

    Simkin sat up, but only to  wrap one arm around Saryon's neck  and
drag him down with him, causing the catalyst to bang his head  smartly
on the table.

    "What are you doing? " Saryon demanded, trying to free himself and
nearly choking  from  the wine  fumes  exhaling from  Simkin's  mouth,
"Thish... shignal," Simkin said in a loud whisper, wrapping his  other
arm around the catalyst's neck and smiling up at him drunkenly.  "Time
to"-he belched-"'shcape."

    "What?" demanded Saryon, still trying to break Simkin's hold.  But
every time  he  loosened one  of  the  young man's  hands,  the  other
entwined itself around him  again, Simkin was  hanging onto his  neck,
then-falling forward-around his  waist, then-leaning his  head on  his
chest-lolling around his shoulders.

    "Shcape," whispered Simkin, frowning solemnly. "Now."

    "How?" Saryon muttered, dimly aware  that there was singing  going
on in the background. To his  dismay, he saw moonlight filtering  down
onto the table through the rifts  in the high cavern ceiling.  Elspeth
was rising to her  feet, her beautiful  face as cold  and pale as  the
light shining on it.

    "Tell... tell  them  I'm  shick,"  said  Simkin,  belching  again,
"Hor-hor-hor'ble illness. Plague."

    "But you're drunk!" Saryon snarled furiously.

    Suddenly Simkin lurched forward,  his dead weight dragging  Saryon
to the floor. The  faeries laughed and  cheered. Elspeth was  shouting
something. Completely tangled up in Simkin, his robes, and the  chair,
Saryon lay on his back on the floor, Simkin on top of him, as feet  of
every shape and description danced and darted about him.

    Lifting his head from  where it rested  on Saryon's chest,  Simkin
looked at  the  catalyst  with round,  solemn,  unfocused  eyes,  "You
shee..." he  breathed in  a grape-laden  whisper, "faeries  never  get
drunk. Physh... ically im-possible. They'll b'lieve I'm shick. Shcape.
Shee?"

    Saryon stared  at  the young  man  hopefully. "Then,  you're  only
pretending to be drunk?"

    "Oh, no!"  said  Simkin  solemnly.  "N'ver  do  anythin'  halfway.
Jush... help me to my... feet. All... four of 'em."

    At that moment, several of the stronger male faeries grasped  hold
of Simkin and dragged him off the catalyst. Several more helped Saryon
to his feet, the catalyst stalling as long as possible to try to think
what to say and do,  wondering if he might not  be able to get out  on
his own.

    Simkin, meanwhile, was being held  upright by the combined  forces
of four faeries,  two holding his  feet and two  more flying over  his
head, gripping him  firmly by  the hair.  Looking at  the young  man's
rolling eyes, crazed grin, and wobbly legs, Saryon suddenly went  calm
with despair. Leave  without Simkin?  Impossible. Saryon  had no  idea
where he was and he  guessed, from what little  he had seen, that  the
Faerie Kingdom was a  vast catacomb of  twisting, winding tunnels  and
caverns. He would be lost by himself. Besides, if he did make it  back
into the wilderness, his life was worth nothing anyway.

    Stay here... with Elspeth... He would go mad, soon. But what sweet
madness...

    Sighing softly, Saryon turned to the Faerie Queen, "Send for  your
Healer," he commanded in his sternest voice.

    "What?" She appeared astonished  and, raising her hand,  instantly
quieted the clamor  and commotion of  the faeries. Darkness  descended
suddenly on the great  hall except for a  light that gleamed from  her
golden hair. "A Healer? We have no Healer."

    "What, none?" Saryon was shocked. "No Mannanish at least?"

    "What for?" Elspeth responded scornfully, "We are never sick.  Why
do you think we avoid human contamina-"

    Pausing, she looked at Simkin more intently, her eyes narrowing.

    "Until now,"  Saryon  said grimly,  pointing  to Simkin,  who  was
looking worse all the  time. His face had  turned an unbecoming  green
beneath the beard,  his eyes  were rolling  in his  head. The  faeries
supporting the weak  and reeling young  man stared at  their Queen  in
alarm.

    "Here," offered Saryon, stepping over  and putting his arm  firmly
around Simkin's sagging body, "I'll take him to his chambers-"

    "I'll take care of him!" said Elspeth calmly. "At once!"

    Saryon's heart leaped into his throat  as he saw her preparing  to
cast a magic spell that would probably have sent Simkin to the  bottom
of the river.

    "No!  Wait!"  the  catalyst  cried,  hanging  onto  the  foolishly
grinning Simkin. Peacefully swaying from side to side, he was  humming
a little ditty.  "No, you mustn't  send him away.  We-we need to  know
what he's got!" Saryon finished in a burst of inspiration. "To see  if
it's... catching."

    "Fatal," said Simkin  mournfully, and was  promptly sick all  over
the floor.  The  faeries who  had  been attending  him  screeched  and
jabbered in fear and anger, backing up until there was a clear  circle
around the catalyst and his guide.

    "Are humans subject to such frailties?" Elspeth asked, frowning.

    "Yes, oh  yes!" Saryon  said breathlessly,  seeing a  ray of  hope
drift down among the moonbeams. "It happens to me constantly!"

    Looking at him, Elspeth  smiled. "Then it is  well that we  mingle
the blood of your child with mine.  In time, perhaps we will wipe  out
this weak, human trait. Take him to his chambers, then. You  four"-she
detailed four of the tallest of the tall faeries-"accompany them. When
Simkin is settled, bring my beloved to my bed."

    Moving closer, she  brushed her lips  against Saryon's cheek.  Her
warm flesh, soft and curving, pressed  against his and for an  instant
the catalyst was as weak  as Simkin. Then she  was gone, her cloud  of
golden hair shimmering around her.

    "Let the merriment  continue!" she shouted  and the darkness  came
alive.

    Saryon turned, his despair  complete, and proceeded to  half-walk,
half-drag the  drunken  Simkin  through the  hall,  followed  by  four
dancing faerie guards.

    "Well, it was a good try," Saryon whispered to Simkin with a sigh.
"But it didn't work."

    "It didn't?" asked Simkin, looking  about in amazement. "Did  they
catch us? I don't remember running!"

    "Running!" Saryon  said, puzzled.  "What  do you  mean-running?  I
thought we were trying to convince them to let us go because you  were
sick?"

    "I shay, that'sh a good idea!" said Simkin, regarding Saryon  with
misty-eyed admiration. "Letsh try it."

    "I did," snapped Saryon tensely, his arms and back aching with the
strain, his hands  pricked by the  leaves Simkin was  wearing. He  was
growing increasingly nauseated  from the  smell of  forest, wine,  and
vomit, "It didn't work."

    "Oh." Simkin appeared  downcast, then  almost immediately  cheered
up. "I guessh we'll have to... to make... makearunforit ."

    "Shhh!" cautioned  Saryon, glancing  back at  the guards.  "That's
nonsense! You can't walk, let alone run."

    "You forget,"  said Simkin  with  a lofty  air,  "I am  a  skilled
wizard. Class Albanara. Open a con... duit to me, Catalysht, and  I...
will walk the wings of air.

    "You really know the way out?" Saryon asked dubiously.

    "Coursh."

    "How do you feel?"

    "Much better... since I was shick."

    "Very well,"  Saryon  muttered  nervously, glancing  back  at  the
guards, who weren't paying the least attention to them. "Which way?"

    Simkin stared around, swiveling his head like an owl. "That  way,"
he indicated,  nodding at  a dark,  unused corridor  branching off  to
their right. Glancing behind him,  Saryon saw the four guards  lagging
behind, staring back wistfully at the revelry they were missing.

    "Now!" Simkin cried.

    Saryon started  to  whisper a  prayer  to the  Almin.  Remembering
bitterly that he was on his own now, he opened a conduit to the  magic
around him. Drawing it into his body, he hastily made the mathematical
calculations necessary to give the young  man Life, but not enough  to
completely drain himself. Filled with the magic he could never use, he
extended the conduit to Simkin and felt the surge as the young  wizard
drew it from him.

    Suffused with  magical energy,  Simkin took  to the  air with  the
grace of a drunken loon.

    Seeing the young man safely on  his way, Saryon broke into a  run,
the pent-up fear and  nervousness surging in his  blood giving him  an
unusual burst of strength  as he dashed down  the cavern corridor.  He
heard their guards cry out, but  he dared not risk looking behind  him
to see what was happening. He was having enough trouble staying on his
feet as it was. Though here and  there a torch sputtered on the  wall,
the cavern corridor was shadowy, the  floor was strewn with rocks  and
rubble. He had no idea where they were headed. Corridors branched  off
in all  directions, but  Simkin flew  past them  without pausing,  his
leaves fluttering around him like those of a tree in a high wind.

    The shouting  behind them  grew louder,  echoing down  the  cavern
walls in an alarming fashion.  Saryon thought he could hear  Elspeth's
fourius voice  rising shrill  and harsh  above them  all. The  torches
winked out,  plunging them  into a  darkness so  complete that  Saryon
instantly lost all sense of what was ahead of him, above him, or below
him.

    "Ouch! Drat!"

    "Simkin?" Saryon cried fearfully, coming to a halt, not daring  to
take another step in the darkness, though he could hear the shouts  of
the faeries exulting loudly.

    "More Life, Catalyst!" Simkin called out.

    His breath  coming in  gasps,  his heart  lurching in  his  chest,
Saryon opened the conduit once again. Immediately the corridor was lit
with a  faint light,  shining  from Simkin's  hands. The  young  magus
hovered before him, rubbing his nose.

    "Bashed into a wall," he said ruefully.

    Glancing back,  Saryon  saw  lights  leaping  down  the  corridor,
gaining on them rapidly. "Let's go!"  he gasped and ran forward,  only
to stumble very quickly backward with a cry.

    A huge black spider, nearly as large as the corridor itself,  hung
in a gigantic web  spun across their path.  A sudden vision of  having
plummeted into that web in the  darkness, of hairy legs crawling  over
his body,  of stinging  poison paralyzing  him crowded  into  Saryon's
mind, leaving him so weak and drained that he could barely stand.

    Leaning back against  the wall,  he stared at  the hideous  spider
that was watching them  with fiery red eyes,  "It's useless," he  said
quietly. "We can't fight them!"

    "Non... sense!" Simkin remarked. Flying over to Saryon, he grabbed
the catalyst by the arm and tugged him down the corridor, heading  for
the web.

    "Are you mad?" Saryon gasped.

    "Come on!" Simkin insisted. Dragging the terrified catalyst  along
after him, he lunged straight for the body of the huge spider.

    Frantically, Saryon tried to break free of Simkin's hold, but  the
young man,  now  filled  with  magical energy,  was  too  strong.  The
spider's red eyes loomed larger than twin suns, its hairy legs reached
out, the web was wrapping round, suffocating him...

    Saryon closed his eyes.

    "I say,  old friend,  I can't  keep  this up  for ever,"  came  an
aggrieved voice.

    Opening his eyes, Saryon saw, to his amazement, nothing.

    The dark corridor stretched ahead of them, empty except for Simkin
who hovered in the air near him.

    "What? The spider-" Saryon glanced around wildly.

    "Illusion," Simkin said scornfully. "I was... fairly certain... It
wasn't real. Elspeth's good... not that good. Real spider in the  wink
of a... finger?  Hah!" He  snorted, "Coursh,"  he added,  struck by  a
sudden thought,  his eyes  widening. "Always  possibility,  I'spose...
real spider... posted to guard corridor. Never occurred to me. Almin's
blood, we dashed right  into the middle of  the web!" Seeing  Saryon's
horrified expression, the young magus  shrugged and clapped Saryon  on
the shoulder. "Could have been a  bit sticky for us, couldn't it,  old
fellow?"

    Too exhausted to speak, Saryon could only draw in painful  breaths
and try to push the terror out  of his mind. Shouts behind him  helped
considerably.

    "How far do we have to go?" he managed to ask, stumbling forward.

    "Round... bend."  Simkin pointed.  "I  think..." Glancing  at  the
catalyst staggering wearily along the ground beside him, the young man
asked, "You going to make it?"

    Saryon nodded his head grimly, though  his legs had long ago  lost
any sensation of feeling and seemed to be just so much dead weight for
him to carry around. The  shouts were getting closer. Glancing  behind
again, he  could see  the  dancing lights,  or  perhaps it  was  spots
bursting before his eyes.  He wasn't certain and,  at that moment,  he
didn't care. "They're gaining," he croaked, his voice catching in  his
throat as a sharp, swift pain tore through his side.

    "I'll stop that!" Simkin said. Whirling about in midair, he raised
his hand.  Lightning shot  from his  fingers, exploded  on the  cavern
ceiling, and immediately the air  around them was filled with  booming
thunder, falling rock, and the choking smell of sulfur.

    Blinded, deafened, and in dire peril  of being struck on the  head
by the collapsing cavern roof, Saryon hurled himself forward, assisted
by Simkin. "That ought to keep  them busy," the young man muttered  in
pleased tones as they dashed down the corridor.

    The catalyst had  no idea  what happened  after that.  He ran  and
stumbled and fell, and had the vague impression of Simkin hauling  him
to his  feet,  and ran  some  more. He  had  the hazy  remembrance  of
pleading with Simkin in to  let him lie down  and die in the  darkness
and end the burning pain that  was tearing through his body. He  heard
shouts behind him and then the  shouts stopped and he wanted to  stop,
but Simkin  wouldn't let  him and  then there  were shouts  again  and
finally... sunlight.

    Sunlight. It was  the only  thing that could  have penetrated  the
darkness of  fear and  pain that  was closing  over Saryon.  They  had
escaped! Fresh air blew on his face, giving him added strength. With a
final burst of energy that came from somewhere unknown inside him, the
catalyst made  a lunge  for  the opening  he  could see  now,  shining
brightly at the end of the tunnel.

    What would he  do once he  was outside? Would  the faeries  follow
them into the  forest? Pursue them,  hunt them down,  drag them  back?
Saryon didn't know and he didn't care.  If he could just feel the  sun
on his face, grass beneath his feet, see sheltering trees spread their
boughs above him-everything would be all right. He knew it.

    Victory and exultation  flooding through him,  Saryon reached  the
end of the tunnel, burst out into the sunlight...

    ... and nearly fell off the edge of a sheer cliff.

    Grabbing hold of the catalyst, Simkin dragged Saryon away from the
end of the ledge, stumbling backward into a rock wall. Saryon sank  to
his knees, at first too exhausted and confused to comprehend what  had
happened. When the dizziness cleared and  he was able to look  around,
he saw that he and Simkin were  perched on a small ledge of rock  that
extended out from the tunnel about ten feet before it ended in a  drop
of a hundred feet  or more straight down  into a heavily wooded  river
canyon.

    His body  aching, his  hope dashed  as effectively  as if  it  had
leaped off the rock edge and tumbled to the ground below, Saryon could
do nothing but look at Snnkin, too exhausted even to speak.

    "This is rather unexpected," the young man admitted, stroking  his
beard as he stared down into the tops of the trees below. "I know!" he
said suddenly. "Damn! I should have  taken a right at the second  fork
instead of a left. I always make that mistake."

    Saryon closed his  eyes. "Go  ahead and save  yourself," he  said.
"You have Life enough to float down on the wind currents."

    "And leave  you  behind? No,  no,  old fellow,"  Simkin  said.  He
floated over to stand before the catalyst, still weaving slightly from
the effects of  the wine.  "Couldn't think of  abandon... doning  you.
Like a... a father to me..."

    "Don't start crying!" Saryon snapped.

    "No, sorry." Simkin choked and wiped his nose. "We're not done for
yet, if you have a bit more strength left?" He peered at the  catalyst
hopefully.

    "I don't know." Saryon  shook his head. He  wasn't certain he  had
strength enough to even keep breathing.

    "It's this sort of talent I've got," Simkin said persuasively.  "I
can change myself into inanimate objects."

    Saryon stared  at him,  uncomprehending. "That's  crazy," he  said
finally. "I know the mathematical calculations involved. It'd take six
catalysts, with full strength, to give you enough Life-"

    He heard the shouts behind  him then, mingled with harsh,  raucous
laughter as the faeries realized their prey was trapped.

    "No!" Simkin said eagerly. "I said, it's my talent. I can do it at
will, with just  my own force  generally. Now, I'm  a bit flagged  and
somewhat muddled from the wine, so if you could help..."

    "I don't-"

    "Quickly, man!" Simkin cried, grabbing hold of Saryon and  pulling
him to his feet.

    Too spent to argue, not  caring anyway, Saryon opened the  conduit
and expended his last energy. Magic flowed through him like blood from
an open vein and then he was  empty, drained. He had no more to  give,
not having the strength  required to draw in  any more from the  world
around him. The shouts  grew louder and louder.  They'd be here  soon.
Perhaps he should just jump, he thought, and stared dreamily out  over
the ledge.

    He pictured himself falling through the air, the ground leaping up
to meet him, his body crashing onto sharp rocks, smashing, breaking...

    Feeling his stomach clench, Saryon backed up precipitously...  and
walked right  into  a  tree.  Whirling,  he  looked  at  the  tree  in
amazement. It hadn't been there before. The ledge had been bare...

    "Up! Climb up!" the tree said in a muffled voice.

    Staring in wonder, Saryon  reached out a  trembling hand to  touch
the tree's rough bark. "Simkin?"

    "There's no time to waste! Hide in the boughs! Quickly!"

    Too tired  to think  clearly or  even to  marvel at  this  strange
occurrence, Saryon hitched his robes up around his waist and, catching
hold of alow-hanging bough, pulled himself  up into the tree that  was
standing on the edge of the rock ledge.

    "Higher! You've got to climb higher!"

    Clinging to the  trunk, Saryon managed  to scrabble his  way up  a
little farther. Then he came to a stop. Pressing his cheek against the
limb, he  shook his  head.  "I... can't...  go... any  further..."  he
murmured brokenly.

    "All right!"  The  tree  sounded  irritated.  "Hold  still.  Thank
goodness you're wearing green."

    This won't  fool them,  Saryon thought,  listening to  the  voices
echoing in the cavern. All it will take is one of them to look up here
or fly up here  and- A gust of  wind hit the tree  and a limb  beneath
Saryon's feet gave way with a sudden snap. Grasping hold of a  branch,
pulling himself up, the  catalyst stared down  at the splintered  limb
and hope vanished completely. Brown and dried up inside, the limb  was
dead, as dead as he himself was going to be soon. Another gust swirled
about the mountain,  another dead  branch fell to  the ledge.  Beneath
him, Saryon could feel  the entire tree  shaking and shivering.  There
was a  crack, then  a  snapping and  rending  sound. Finally,  with  a
heartrending shudder, the tree toppled over the edge of the cliff.

    Clinging to Simkin's bark and  leaves, Saryon heard the young  man
murmuring to himself as they fell.

    "Strike me dead! I'm rotten."

    6

    The Coven of the Wheel "So this is the catalyst."

    "Yes, dear boy. Not a very imposing specimen, is he? Still,  there
must be more to him than was  readily apparent to me after our  little
outing. He's been sent here after you, Joram."

    "Sent? Who sent him?"

    "Bishop Vanya."

    "Oh, and the catalyst told you that, did he, Simkin?"

    "Of course, Mosiah. I'm in the old chap's complete confidence.  He
thinks of me as the son he never had. Told me so many times. Not  that
I trust him. After all, he is  a catalyst. But I heard the same  thing
from Bishop Vanya-about Joram, that is. Not about me being the son  he
never had."

    "And I suppose the Emperor sent along his regards..."

    "I'm sure I don't know why he would. Not to you peasants. Go ahead
and laugh. I  have merely  to await the  day of  my vindication.  This
Saryon is after you, Dark One."

    "He looks in fairly bad shape. What did you do to him?"

    "Nothing! 'Pon my  honor. Is  it my fault,  Mosiah, that  it is  a
cruel and vicious world out there? A world into which, I daresay,  our
catalyst will not soon dare to venture by himself."

    Saryon awakened with a sneeze.

    His head was clogged and aching, and he was afflicted with a sore,
raw throat. Coughing, the catalyst  huddled into his robes, afraid  to
open his eyes. He was lying in a bed, but where? In my own bed, in  my
cell in the Font, he  told himself. When I  open my eyes, that's  what
I'll see. This has all been a dream.

    For several  pleasant  minutes he  lay  wrapped in  his  blankets,
pretending. He even pictured all the old familiar objects in his room,
his books,  the tapestries  he'd brought  from Merilon,  all would  be
there, just as it was.

    Then he heard  someone moving  about. Sighing,  Saryon opened  his
eyes.

    He was in  a small  room, the  likes of  which he  had never  seen
before. Pale sunlight filtering through a cracked window illuminated a
scene the catalyst might have  pictured existing Beyond. The walls  of
the room were  not shaped of  stone or of  wood, but were  made up  of
perfectly formed rectangles arranged one on top of the other. It had a
most unnatural appearance and, looking at it, the catalyst  shuddered.
Everything in the room  appeared unnatural, in  fact, he noticed  with
growing horror as he propped himself up to look around. A table in the
center had not been crafted lovingly from a single piece of wood,  but
was made  up  of several  different  pieces of  wood  brutally  forced
together. Several chairs were formed  the same way, looking  misshapen
and fiendish. If  Saryon had seen  a human being  walking about  whose
body had been made from the bodies of other dead humans, he could  not
have been more  appalled. He imagined  he could almost  hear the  wood
screaming in agony.

    But there was the sound again. Saryon peered uncertainly into  the
shadows of the small room.

    "Hello?" he wheezed.

    There was no reply. Puzzled, he lay back down again. He could have
sworn he heard  voices. Or had  that been  a dream? He'd  had so  many
dreams lately, terrible dreams. Faeries  and the most beautiful  woman
and a dreadful tree-  With another sneeze, he  sat up in bed,  groping
about for something to wipe his streaming nose.

    "I say, O Bruised and Battered Father, will this do?"

    A bit of orange  silk materialized out of  the air, fluttering  to
lie on the blanket near Saryon's hand. The catalyst drew back from  it
as though it had been a snake.

    " 'Tis I. In the flesh, so to speak."

    Looking behind  him, toward  the sound  of the  voice, Saryon  saw
Simkin standing at the head of the bed. At least the catalyst supposed
it was the young man who had  "rescued" him in the Outland. Gone  were
the plain brown robes of a woods  ranger, gone were the leaves of  the
faerie. A brocade  coat of the  most startling blue,  combined with  a
paler blue waistcoat, covered a red silken blouse that glowed brighter
than the watery sun.  Green skintight breeches  were buckled with  red
jewels at the knees, his legs  were wrapped in red silken hose,  while
green  frothy  lace   peeped  out   from  everywhere-wrists,   throat,
waistcoat. His  brown  hair was  sleek  and shiny,  his  beard  combed
smooth.

    "Admiring my ensemble?" asked Simkin, smoothing his curls. "I call
it Corpse Blue. 'Dreadful name, Simkin, ' said the Countess Dupere. 'I
am aware  of that!  ', replied  with feeling,  'but it  was the  first
impression that came into  my mind and things  so rarely come into  my
mind at all that I thought I'd  better latch hold of it, so to  speak,
and make it feel welcome. '"

    Simkin sauntered  over  to  stand  beside  Saryon  as  he  talked.
Gracefully lifting the orange silk  scarf from the blanket, he  handed
it to the astounded catalyst with  a flourish. "I know. The  breeches.
Never seen anything like them, I  suppose? Latest fad at court.  Quite
the rage. I must say I'm fond of them. Chafe my legs, though..."

    Another sneeze and a fit of coughing from the catalyst interrupted
Simkin who, motioning a chair to come  to his side, sat down upon  it,
crossing his legs so that he might better admire his hose.

    "Feeling a bit rotten?  Nasty cold you've  caught. Must have  been
from when we tumbled into the river."

    "Where am I?" croaked Saryon. "What is this place?"

    "I say, you're positively froglike. And as for where you are, it's
where you  wanted to  be, of  course. I  was your  guide, after  all."
Simkin lowered  his  voice.  "You're  among  the  Technologists.  I've
brought you to their Coven."

    "How did I get here? What happened? What river?"

    "Don't you  remember?" Simkin  sounded hurt.  "After I  risked  my
life, changing  into  a tree  and  then leaping  over  the  precipice,
holding you in  my branches-er, arms-as  tenderly as a  mum holds  her
child."

    "That was real?" Saryon peered  blearily at Simkin through  watery
eyes. "Not... a nightdream?"

    "I am cut to the  quick!" Simkin sniffed, looking deeply  wounded.
"After everything  I've done  for  you and  you don't  remember.  Why,
you're like a father to me..."

    Shivering, Saryon pulled the blankets up around his neck.  Closing
his eyes, he blotted  out everything, Simkin,  Corpse Blue coats,  the
abysmal room, the voices he'd heard or dreamed. The young man prattled
on, but Saryon ignored him, too sick  to care. He almost dozed, but  a
horrifying feeling of falling came over  him and, with a catch in  his
breath, he started awake again. Then he became aware of a sound in the
distance, a sound that had seemed a thumping, rhythmic undercurrent to
his night devils.

    "What's that?" he asked, coughing.

    "What's what?"

    "That... noise... That banging..."

    "The iron forge..."

    The iron forge. Saryon's  soul shrank within  him. Vanya had  been
right. The Sorcerers of the Coven had relearned the ancient,  banished
art-the art of darkness that had nearly caused the destruction of  the
world. What kind of people were these who had lost their souls to  the
Ninth Mystery? They  must be fiends,  devils, and he  was alone  among
them now. Alone, except  for Simkin. Who was  Simkin? What was he?  If
Saryon hadn't  dreamed the  tree  and the  faeries, then  perhaps  the
voices he had  heard had  been real, too,  and that  meant Simkin  had
betrayed him. He's been sent here after you, Joram. There had been  no
frippery in the voice that said those words. Is it my fault that it it
a cruel and vicious  world out there? A  world into which, I  daresay,
our catalyst will not  soon dare to venture  by himself. There was  no
green lace, no orange silk, no  sleek, shining smile. Corpse Blue.  As
cold and cutting as the iron.

    Joram knows  who  I  am  and  why  I  am  here,  Saryon  realized,
shuddering. He will kill  me. He has done  murder before. But  perhaps
they won't let him. They need a catalyst, after all. At least,  that's
what Vanya  said.  Yet  how  can  I  help  these  fiends,  these  foul
Sorcerers? Will I not be helping them further their dread art?  Didn't
Vanya foresee that?

    Saryon sat up in bed,  struggling to breathe, his thoughts  coming
sluggishly through the cold in his  head. I won't! he determined.  The
first time this Joram and I are alone together, I will open a Corridor
and return with him. Though he may be Dead, he and I together  possess
Life enough between us to effect the  magic. I will take him back  and
rid myself of him, let Vanya do to him what he will. Then I will leave
their Font  and  their  spies,  their  lies  and  their  pious,  empty
teachings. Perhaps I will  return to my father's  house. It is  empty,
the Church owns it. I will shut myself up with my books...

    Saryon lay  back  down,  tossing  feverishly.  He  had  the  vague
impression that Simkin had left the room, flying through the air  like
some gaudy, tropical bird,  but he was too  ill and too distraught  to
pay any attention.

    The catalyst sank into  a troubled sleep. A  vision of a  Sorcerer
rose up before  him, emerging  from the flame  and smoke  of the  iron
forge-a man whose face was twisted  by every evil passion, whose  eyes
burned red from having stared into the fire day after day, whose  skin
was coated with the foul  soot of his black  art. As Saryon stared  in
petrified fear, the  Sorcerer drew near  him. In his  hand, he held  a
glowing rod of iron...

    "Easy, Father. Do not be alarmed."

    Sitting up without any conscious  remembrance of doing so,  Saryon
found himself trying desperately to throw off his blankets and  escape
from his bed. The  bright glare of flame  blinded him in the  darkened
room. He couldn't see... He didn't want to see...

    "Father!" A  hand on  his shoulder  shook him.  "Father, wake  up,
You're having a fever dream."

    Shuddering, Saryon  came to  himself. Sanity  returned. He'd  been
dreaming again.  Or had  he? Blinking  his eyes,  he stared  into  the
flame. The voice that spoke wasn't Simkin's. It was older, deeper. The
Sorcerer...

    As his eyes became accustomed to the light, Saryon saw the glowing
rod of iron  diminish into nothing  but a flaming  torch, held in  the
hand of an old  man, whose wrinkled face  peered at him benignly.  The
touch of the hand upon his shoulder was gentle. With a shivering sigh,
Saryon sank  back down  onto  his pillow.  This  was not  a  Sorcerer,
Nothing but a servant, perhaps. Glancing  about, he saw that the  room
was dark. Was it night, he  wondered vaguely, or had the blackness  of
this evil place finally blotted out the light?

    "There, that's better. Father. The lad said you were restless. Lie
back and relax. My wife is coming with the Healer-"

    "Healer?" Saryon  stared at  the  old man,  puzzled. "You  have  a
Healer?"

    "A Druid of the Mannanish class, nothing more, I'm afraid. She  is
quite skilled in herb  lore, however, having  much knowledge that  has
been lost in the outside world.  Such skills are not needed among  the
Druids, I suppose, with you catalysts to assist them in their work."

    Padding over to  the far end  of the  room, the old  man used  the
flame of the torch to start a fire in the grate, then doused the torch
in a bucket of water. "Perhaps we will not need to rely upon the gifts
of nature now since you are among us, Father," the old man  continued.
Taking up what appeared to be a  slender stick of wood, he thrust  one
end of it into the  blaze, caused it to burn,  and carried it over  to
the table, talking all the while about the Healer and her skill.

    Lying back,  Saryon followed  the old  man's movements  about  the
firelit cabin with  a strange sense  of euphoria, his  mind only  half
attending to the conversation. Even the sight of the old man using the
end of the flaming stick to set fire to the top of several tall, thick
sticks that stood on  crude pedestals did  not disturb the  catalyst's
strange sense of uncaring relaxation. He was rather startled to notice
that the fire  did not die  out or immediately  consume the sticks.  A
small flame remained burning steadily at the top of each, filling  the
room with a soft, glowing light.

    "The Mannanish is a good woman, very dedicated to her calling. Her
healing arts  have saved  the lives  of more  than one  person in  our
settlement. But how many more could have lived if her powers of  magic
had been enhanced? You have  no idea," the old  man said with a  sigh,
returning to his  seat and smiling  down at Saryon,  "how long I  have
prayed to the Almin to send us a catalyst."

    "Pray to the Almin? " Saryon  was confused for a moment, then  the
truth penetrated his slow-moving mind. "Ah, of course. You're not  one
of them."

    "One of whom,  Father?" the  old man asked,  his smile  broadening
slightly.

    "The   Sorcerers"-Saryon    gestured   outside,    coughing-"these
Technologists. Are you a slave?"

    Reaching beneath the collar  of his long gray  robes, the old  man
brought forth a strange-looking pendant  attached to a finely  wrought
golden chain that hung about his  neck. Made of wood, the pendant  was
carved into  the shape  of  a hollowed-out  circle connected  by  nine
spokes, "Father," said the old man simply, a look of pride coming into
his wrinkled face, "I am Andon, their leader."

    "Steady, Father. That's right. Lean on my arm. This is your  first
day out. We don't want to overdo it."

    Walking slowly beside the old man, his hand on Andon's arm, Saryon
blinked in the bright  sunshine as he gratefully  drew in a breath  of
fresh air, fragrant with the smelts of late summer.

    "Your adventures must have been quite terrifying," Andon continued
as they proceeded slowly  out of the cabin's  small yard and into  the
dirt road that ran  through the settlement. Noting  the stares of  the
villagers, the old man  acknowledged them with a  nod of his head.  No
one spoke to them, however,  although many regarded the catalyst  with
unabashed curiosity. Their respect and veneration for the old man  was
obvious, however, and they did not disturb them.

    So these are Dark Sorcerers, Saryon thought. Faces of twisted evil
passions? Faces of young mothers,  nursing small babies. Red,  glowing
eyes? Tired, weary, work-worn eyes. Chants to the powers of  darkness?
The laughter of children, playing  in the street. The only  difference
that he saw between these people  and those in the village of  Walren,
or even between  these people  and those  in Merilon,  was that  these
people used little or no magic. Forced to conserve Life since they had
no catalysts to replenish it for them, the Sorcerers walked,  trudging
through the mud  of the  refuse-strewn street,  wearing soft,  leather
boots.

    Saryon's gaze went  to a group  of men working  busily, shaping  a
dwelling place. But these  were not magi  of the Pron-alban,  lovingly
drawing the stone  up out  of the  earth, skillfully  molding it  with
their magical  spells.  These  men  used  their  hands,  stacking  the
rectangular blocks of unnatural  stone one on top  of the other.  Even
the stones themselves were made  by the hands of  men, so the old  man
said. Clay put  into molds, and  baked in the  sun. Pausing a  moment,
Saryon watched in grim fascination as the men placed the stone in neat
and orderly rows,  joining them  together with some  sort of  adhesive
substance that they spread between them. But this was not the only use
of Technology. Everywhere he looked,  in fact, he was confronted  with
the Dark Arts.

    None were more in  evidence than the symbol  of the coven  itself,
the pendant the old man wore  around his neck-the wheel. Small  wheels
caused laden carts to roll across the ground, a huge wheel stole  Life
from the river, using  it-so Andon said-to run  other wheels inside  a
brick building.  These wheels  caused great  stones to  rub  together,
grinding wheat into  flour. Marks  of the Sorcerers  were even  carved
into the land itself.

    Across the river, the catalyst could see the dark eyes of man-made
caves glaring at him as if in reproach. Here, long ago, so Andon  told
him, the  Technologists tore  the  stone containing  iron out  of  the
earth, using  some sort  of devilish  substance that  could  literally
blast rock to fragments. A skill now lost, Andon mentioned sadly.  The
Sorcerers now had to rely on iron ore left from that distant past.

    And over and  above every  sound, the talking,  the laughing,  the
crying, was  the eternal,  never-ending clanging  that came  from  the
forge, sounding through the village like a huge, dark bell.

    Perversion of  Life, screamed  the catalyst  in Saryon.  They  are
destroying the  magic!  But  the logical  part  within  him  answered.
Survival. And perhaps it was that same logical part that Saryon caught
toying with wonderful new mathematical concepts using this art. He had
already noticed that the brick dwelling  in which he lived was  warmer
and snugger than the dead, hollowed-out trees used by the Field  Magi.
Might not something be done...

    Shocked to find  himself thinking such  things, Saryon forced  his
attention back to the old man.

    "Yes, your adventures must have been quite terrifying. Captured by
giants, fighting  centaur, Simkin  saving  your life  by  transforming
himself into a  tree. I'd enjoy  hearing your version  someday, if  it
wouldn't upset you to talk  about it." Andon smiled indulgently.  "One
hesitates believing Simkin."

    "Tell me something about  Simkin," Saryon said,  glad to turn  his
mind to other matters. "Where did he come from? What do you know about
him?"

    "Know about Simkin? Nothing, really. Oh, there's what he tells us,
but that's  all  nonsense,  I  suppose,  like  his  tales  about  Duke
So-and-So and the Countess  of d'Something-or-Other." Glancing at  the
catalyst, Andon added in a mild tone, "We don't ask questions of those
who come to make their home  among us, Father. For example, one  might
wonder what a  catalyst of the  Font-as you so  obviously are, if  you
forgive my saying  so-was doing trying  to cross the  border into  the
Outland by himself."

    Flushing, Saryon stammered, "You see, I-"

    The old man interrupted him. "No, I'm not asking. And you  needn't
tell me. This has been our custom here-a custom that is as old as this
settlement." Sighing, Andon shook his head. His eyes were suddenly old
and weary. "Perhaps it  is not such a  good custom," he murmured,  his
gaze going to a large building that  sat apart from the others on  top
of a  small  rise. Taller  than  the others,  built  out of  the  same
rectangular, unnatural rock, the structure appeared newer than most in
the settlement. "If we had asked questions, we might have avoided much
sorrow and pain."

    "I don't understand," Saryon had  noticed, during his recovery,  a
shadow lying over  those who came  to visit him-Andon,  his wife,  the
Healer. They were nervous, talking  in low voices sometimes,  glancing
about warily, as  if fearful  of being  overheard. He  had thought  of
asking, more than once,  what the matter  might be, recalling  certain
words of  Simkin's.  But he  still  felt  a stranger  among  them  and
uncomfortable in his strange and dark surroundings.

    "I told you I  was the leader  of my people  here," Andon said  in
such a low tone that Saryon had  to bend down to hear him. The  street
they walked wasn't crowded, but the  old man seemed unwilling to  risk
the chance of  even the  few people  hurrying along  on their  various
errands overhearing his words, "That isn't precisely true. I was once,
years ago. But now another leads us."  He looked at Saryon out of  the
corner of his  eye. "You will  meet him soon.  He's been asking  about
you."

    "Blachloch," said Saryon before he thought.

    Stopping, the old man stared at him. "Yes, how did you-"

    "Simkin told me... something of him."

    Andon nodded,  his  face  darkening.  "Simkin.  Yes.  Now  there's
someone-Blachloch, I mean-who could tell you more about the young man,
I believe.  Simkin  seems to  spend  a great  deal  of time  with  the
warlock. Not that Blachloch would  answer your questions, mind you.  A
true Duuk-tsarith, that  one, I  have often  wondered what  he did  to
cause them to cast him out of that dread Order." The old man shivered.

    "But"-Saryon looked  around at  the numerous  dwellings and  small
shops that lined  the streets of  the village-"there are  many of  you
here and only one of him. Why-"

    "-didn't we fight him?"  The old man shook  his head sadly.  "Have
you ever been  apprehended by the  Enforcers? Have you  ever felt  the
touch of their  hands upon  you, draining you  of Life  like a  spider
drains it victim of blood? No need to reply, Father. If you have,  you
understand. And-as to us? Yes, we are  many, but we are not one.  That
you may not understand now, but you will come to in time," The old man
changed the  subject  abruptly. "But  if  you're still  interested  in
Simkin, you might  discuss him with  the two young  men who share  his
dwelling place."

    Seeing that Andon was obviously intent on leading the conversation
away from the former Enforcer, Saryon let the matter drop and returned
once more, and  not reluctantly, to  Simkin, saying that  he would  be
interested to meet his friends.

    "Joram and Mosiah  are their  names," remarked  Andon. "You  might
have heard of Mosiah  from his father  since you lived  for a time  in
Walren-" Glancing at  the catalyst,  he stopped  suddenly in  concern.
"Why, how pale  you are,  Father. I was  afraid this  outing might  be
overdoing things a  bit. Would you  like to sit  down? We're near  the
park."

    "Yes, thank  you," Saryon  said,  though he  wasn't in  the  least
tired. So Simkin had been telling the truth when he said he and  Joram
were friends. And those voices in his room he'd heard when he had been
ill. Joram... Mosiah... Simkin...

    "They're working  now-Mosiah and  Joram, that  is. Simkin's  never
turned a hand  that anyone's seen,"  Andon said, helping  Saryon to  a
seat on a bench in the cool shadow of a large spreading oak tree, "Are
you feeling better, Father? I can send for the Healer..."

    "No, thank you," Saryon murmured. "You were right. I have heard of
Mosiah, I've heard of Joram, too, of course," he added in a low voice.

    "An unusual young man," said Andon. "I presume that since you  are
from Walren, you heard about the murder of the overseer?"

    Saryon nodded, afraid to speak, afraid of saying too much.

    The old man sighed.  "We knew of it,  too, of course. Word  spread
rapidly. Some among us viewed him as a hero. Some thought he would  be
a useful tool." Andon  glanced darkly at the  large brick building  on
the hill. "That, in fact, was why he was brought here."

    "And you?" Saryon asked.  He had come to  have a profound  respect
for this gentle, wise man. "What do you think of Joram?"

    "I fear him," Andon admitted with a smile. "That may sound strange
to you,  Father, coming  from a  Sorcerer of  the Dark  Arts.  Yes"-he
patted Saryon's hand-"I know  much of what you  have been thinking.  I
see the horror and revulsion on your face."

    "It-it is just hard for me to accept-" Saryon stammered, flushing,
"I understand. You are not  alone. Many who come  to us feel the  same
way. Mosiah, for example, still finds  it difficult, I think, to  live
among us and accept our ways."

    "But, about  Joram,"  Saryon  said hesitantly,  wondering  if  his
interest seemed too suspicious, "Were you right? Is he to be  feared?"
The catalyst felt chilled, and waited anxiously for the response.  But
when it came, it wasn't what he had expected.

    "I don't know," Andon said softly. "He has lived among us a  year,
and I feel I know less about him than I do you, whom I have known only
a few days.  Fear him? Yes,  I fear him,  but not for  the reason  you
might think. And I'm not the only one." Andon's gaze went, once again,
to the brick building on the hill.

    "An Enforcer? Afraid of  a seventeen-year-old boy?" Saryon  looked
skeptical.

    "Oh, he wouldn't admit it, maybe not even to himself. But he  does
or, if not, he should."

    "Why?" asked Saryon, "Is the young man so formidable? Has he  such
a violent nature?"

    "No, none of  that. There  were extenuating  circumstances to  the
murder, you know. Joram  had just seen his  mother killed. He  doesn't
have a wild or violent nature. If anything, he is too controlled. Cold
and hard as stone. And alone... so very alone."

    "Then-"

    "I think..." Andon frowned, trying  to give word to his  thoughts.
"It is because-Have you  ever walked into a  crowd of people,  Father,
and noticed one person, almost immediately? Not for anything he  might
do or say,  but just  for his  presence alone?  Joram is  such a  one.
Perhaps because he took a life, he has been marked by the Almin. There
is an  intensity  about him,  a  sense of  destiny.  A sense  of  dark
destiny." The old man shrugged, his  face grave. "I can't explain  it,
but you can judge for yourself. You will soon meet this young man,  if
you want. That's where we're headed. Joram, you see, works in the iron
forge."

    7

    The Forge According to the catechism, "To deal in the Dark Art  of
the Ninth Mystery is to deal in Death."

    According to the catechism, "The Souls of those who deal in  Death
shall be cast in the fiery pit and shall dwell there forever in  agony
eternal and unending."

    Thus do they act out their  own doom, Saryon thought as he  stared
into the fire-lit, red-tinged darkness of the forge.

    Andon had entered the cavern ahead of him, saying something to the
men who worked there, gesturing behind him at the catalyst. Now, aware
that Saryon had not  followed him, the old  man turned around.  Saryon
saw his lips moving, though  the noise of the  forge was such that  he
could hear nothing. Andon gestured. "Step in. Step in."

    Yellow and orange, the  heat of the fire  beat upon the old  man's
face, the red heart of the forge burned in his eyes, the wheel he wore
at his  breast blazed  with  a flaming  light. Consumed  with  horror,
seeing the Sorcerer of his fevered dreams spring up before him, Saryon
drew back from the  gaping entryway. Andon might  truly have been  the
Fallen One, rising up to drag the catalyst to the flames.

    At the  sight of  Saryon's  fear, an  expression of  puzzled  hurt
creased Andon's  face.  But  it was  followed  almost  immediately  by
understanding.

    "I am sorry, Father." Saryon saw  Andon's lips form the words.  "I
should have realized  how this  would affect  you." The  old man  came
toward him. "Let us return home."

    But Saryon could not move. Transfixed, he stared at the scene. The
iron forge was located in a cave in the side of a mountain. A  natural
chimney carried away the noxious  fumes and heat from vast  quantities
of glowing red charcoal  banked in the center  of a vast, round  stone
ledge. Crouched  over it  like  a wheezing  monster, a  large  baglike
contraption breathed air on the coals, giving them fiery life.

    "What... what are they doing?" Saryon asked, wanting to leave, yet
drawn to it by a terrible fascination.

    "They are heating the  iron ore until it  becomes a molten  mass,"
Andon shouted  over  the  banging  and  hissing  and  wheezing,  "that
contains refuse of the ore and the charcoal as well."

    As Saryon  watched, one  of the  young men  working in  the  forge
walked over to  the ledge  and, using what  appeared to  be a  hideous
extension of his arm made out of  metal, lifted a lump of the  red-hot
iron from  its  bed  among  the coals.  Setting  it  down  on  another
ledge-this not of stone  but of iron itself-he  took a tool and  began
pounding the hot iron.

    "There he is-that is Joram," said Andon.

    "What is  he doing?"  Saryon felt  his lips  shape the  words,  he
couldn't hear himself speak.

    "He  is  hammering  the  iron  into  the  form  he  wants,"  Andon
continued. "He does it  this way or  else he could  pour the hot  iron
into a mold and let it cool first, then work it."

    Destroying the  Life within  the stone.  Shaping the  iron with  a
tool. Perverting its god-given  qualities. Killing the magic.  Dealing
in death. The thoughts  pounded in Saryon's head  with each strike  of
the hammer.

    He started to turn away, but at that moment, the young man working
in the black shadows of  the forge lifted his  head and looked out  at
him.

    It is written that the Almin knows the hearts of men but does  not
rule them. Thus man is free to  choose his own destiny, but thus  also
can the Almin foresee how each  man will act to fulfill that  destiny.
By making themselves one with the mind of the Almin, the Diviners were
able to predict the future. It is also said that two souls destined to
touch each other for good or for evil will know this in the instant of
their meeting.

    At that moment, two souls met. Two souls knew.

    As the hammer's ringing blows cracked the black slag covering  the
smoldering red iron,  Joram's dark-eyed  stare sent  a shivering  blow
through Saryon. Shaken  to the very  core of his  being, the  catalyst
turned away from the forge and its fire-lit shadows.

    Andon was hovering near him. "Father, you're not well. I'm sorry I
should have realized how shocking..."

    But the old  man's voice was  lost in the  pounding of the  hammer
blows and in the steady, intense gaze of those brown eyes. For  Saryon
knew those eyes, he knew that face.

    Stumbling through the  streets of the  settlement, having the  dim
impression that Andon was with him but  unable to see or hear the  old
man, Saryon saw only the clear  cold eyes that not even the  reflected
fire of molten iron could heat. He saw the heavy black brows tracing a
line of bitterness across the sweat-covered forehead. He saw the grim,
unsmiling mouth, the  high planed cheekbones,  the shining black  hair
tinged a burning red.

    I know that face! he said to himself. But how? Not in that aspect.
Sorrow, not bitterness, came  to his mind. A  sorrow that never  quite
left the  face, not  even in  gaiety.  Perhaps he  had seen  the  face
seventeen years ago,  in the  Font. Perhaps  he had  known this  boy's
accursed father. Only  the vaguest recollection  of hearing about  the
renegade catalyst's trial came to Saryon. The scandal had been  talked
of for weeks, but he  had been too involved in  his own torment to  be
interested in  another  man's.  Perhaps  he  had  taken  note  of  him
unconsciously, without realizing it. That must be the explanation.  It
had to be and yet, yet...

    Visions of  the  face drifted  into  his  mind. He  could  see  it
smiling, laughing yet always  tainted, always haunted  by a shadow  of
sorrow...

    He recognized it! He knew it! He could almost put a name to it...

    But it vanished before he could  grasp it, drifting from his  mind
like smoke upon the wind.

    8

    The Warlock  Picking  his  way  through the  mud  streets  of  the
Technologists'   village,   Simkin   looked    very   much   like    a
bright-plum-aged bird wandering through a dreary brick jungle. Many of
the people working  about the  area regarded  him with  looks of  wary
wonder, much  as  they  might  have regarded  a  rare  bird  appearing
suddenly in  their  midst.  Several scowled  and  shook  their  heads,
muttering unflattering comments, while here and there a few called out
cheerful greetings  to the  gaudily  dressed young  man as  he  walked
through the streets, careful to keep  his cape out of the mud.  Simkin
responded to both  imprecations and greetings  the same-with a  casual
wave of his lace-covered hand or the doff of a pink feathered cap that
he had just added, as an afterthought, to top off his wardrobe.

    The village children, however, were delighted to see him again. To
them, he was a welcome distraction, easy prey. Dancing about him, they
tried to touch his strange clothes, made fun of his silk-covered legs,
or dared each  other to  sling mud at  him. The  boldest among  them-a
hefty child of  eleven who had  the reputation as  the town  tough-was
urged to go for a solid  hit between the shoulder blades. Creeping  up
behind the young  man, the  child was  prepared to  throw when  Simkin
turned around. He did not speak to the child, he simply stared at him.
Shrinking away, the child hurriedly withdrew, and promptly beat up the
next smaller child he encountered.

    Sniffing in disdain, Simkin drew his cape protectively around  him
and was continuing  on his  way when a  group of  women accosted  him.
Coarsely dressed, uneducated, their  hands reddened and callused  from
hard labor, they were, nevertheless,  the leading ladies of the  town;
one being the  wife of the  blacksmith, another the  wife of the  mine
foreman, the third the wife of the candlestick maker. Crowding  around
Simkin, they eagerly  and somewhat pathetically  demanded to know  the
news of a  court they had  never seen except  through the young  man's
eyes. A court they were as far removed from as the moon from the sun.

    To their delight,  Simkin readily complied.  "The Empress said  to
me, 'What do you call that shade  of green, Simkin, my treasure? '  To
which I replied,  'I don't  call it at  all, Your  Majesty. It  simply
comes when I whistle! ' Ha, ha, what? Drat, what did you say, my dear?
I can't hear a thing above  the infernal banging!" He cast a  scathing
glance  toward  the  forge,  "Health?  The  Empress?  Abysmal,  simply
abysmal. But she insists upon holding  court every night. No, I'm  not
lying. In frightfully poor  taste, if you ask  me, 'You don't  suppose
she has anything  catching? '  said to old  Duke Mardoc.  Poor man.  I
didn't  mean  to  upset  him.  Grabbed  his  catalyst,  he  did,   and
disappeared in the wink of an eye. Wouldn't have supposed the old  boy
had it in him. What did you  say? Yes, this is the absolute latest  in
fashion. Chafes my legs, though... And now I must be getting along.  I
am running errands for our Noble Leader. Have you seen the catalyst?"

    Yes, the ladies had  seen him. He and  Andon had been visting  the
forge. The two  had returned  to Andon's home,  however, the  catalyst
having been taken suddenly ill.

    "I don't doubt it,"  Simkin murmured into  his beard. Doffing  his
cap and  bowing  deeply  to  the ladies,  he  proceeded  on  his  way,
eventually arriving  at one  of  the larger  and  older homes  in  the
settlement. Knocking at the door, he twirled his cap in his hands  and
waited patiently, whistling a dance air.

    "Enter, Simkin, and welcome," said an old woman pleasantly as  she
opened the door.

    "Thank you,  Marta," Simkin  said, pausing  to kiss  the  wrinkled
cheek as he passed. "The Empress sends her best wishes and thanks  for
your inquiry about her health."

    "Get along with you!" Marta scolded, waving her hand to dispel the
strong wave of gardenia fragrance that enveloped her as Simkin  walked
past. "Empress indeed! You're either a liar or a fool, young man."

    "Ah,  Marta,"  said  Simkin,  leaning  near  her  to  whisper   in
confidence. "The Emperor himself posed that very question, 'Simkin,  '
he said, 'are you a liar or a fool? ' "

    "And what  was  your answer?"  Marta  asked, her  lips  twitching,
though she tried to sound severe.

    "I said, 'If I say I am neither, Your Majesty, then I am one. If I
say I am one, then I am the other. ' Do you follow me so far, Marta?"

    "And if you say you're both?"  Marta tilted her head, putting  her
hands beneath the apron of her dress.

    "Precisely what His Majesty inquired. My reply: 'Then I am either,
aren't I? '" Simkin bowed. "Think about it, Marta. It kept His Majesty
occupied for at least an hour."

    "So, you've been to court  again, have you, Simkin?" asked  Andon,
coming over to greet the young man. "Which one?"

    "Merilon. Zith-el.  It doesn't  matter,"  returned Simkin  with  a
gaping yawn. "Let me  assure you, sir,  they're all alike,  'specially
this time of year.  Preparing for Harvest Revels  and all that.  Quite
boring. 'Pon  my honor,  I'd be  more  than happy  to stay  and  chat.
Especially"-he  sniffed  hungrily-"since   dinner  smells   positively
heavenly as the centaur said of the catalyst he was stewing,  but-What
was I saying? Oh, catalyst-Yes, that's  the very reason I've come.  Is
he about?"

    "He is resting," said Andon gravely.

    "Not taken ill,  I suppose?" Simkin  asked nonchalantly, his  gaze
wandering about  the room  and just  happening to  fix on  the  figure
stretched out upon a cot in a shadowy corner.

    "No. We walked rather farther this morning than he was up to, I am
afraid."

    "A pity.  Old  Blachloch's  sent for  him,"  said  Simkin  coolly,
twirling his cap in his hand.

    Andon's face darkened. "If it could wait-"

    " 'Fraid not," Simkin replied  with another yawn. "Urgent and  all
that. You know Blachloch."

    Moving to stand  near her  husband, a  worried look  on her  face,
Marta put  her  hand on  his  arm. Andon  patted  it. "Yes,"  he  said
quietly. "I know him. Still, I-"

    The figure on the bed roused  itself. "Do not worry, Andon,"  said
Saryon, getting to his feet. "I  am feeling much more myself, I  think
it  must  have  been  the  fumes  or  the  smoke,  it  made  me   feel
light-headed-"

    "Father! You've no idea," cried Simkin in a choked voice,  leaping
forward and  throwing  his arms  around  the startled  catalyst,  "how
perfectly wonderful it is to see you  up and about. I was so  worried!
So frightfully worried-"

    "There, there," Saryon said, flushing in embarrassment and  trying
to disengage the young man, who was sobbing on his shoulder.

    "I'm all right," Simkin  said bravely, stepping backward.  "Sorry.
Forgot myself. Well..."  He rubbed his  hands together, smiling.  "All
ready? If you're tired, we could take a cart..."

    "A what?"

    "Cart," said Simkin patiently, "You  know. Moves over the  ground.
Drawn by a horse. Thing with wheels-"

    "Uh, no. I'd really prefer walking," Saryon said hastily.

    "Well, up to you."  Simkin shrugged. "Now,  must be off."  Herding
the catalyst along in front of  him, the young man practically  pushed
him out the door. "Good-bye, Marta, Andon. Hopefully we'll be back  in
time for dinner. If not, don't wait up."

    Before he  quite knew  what was  happening, Saryon  found  himself
standing in the street, rubbing the  sleep from his eyes. He'd  napped
almost all  afternoon, he  realized, seeing  the sun  starting to  set
behind the trees  that lined the  river-bank. But he  didn't feel  any
better, and he wished he hadn't fallen asleep. Now his head ached;  he
felt incapable of thinking clearly.

    Of all times to see Blachloch-the  man everyone from Andon to  the
devil-may-care Simkin seemed to  hold in quiet  terror. I wonder  what
Joram thinks of him? Saryon wondered. Then he shook his head  angrily.
What a stupid  thought. As if  it mattered. Hopefully,  the walk  will
wake me,  he told  himself, falling  into step  with Simkin,  who  was
prodding him along.

    "What can you tell me  about this Blachloch?" Saryon asked  Simkin
in a low voice as they moved among the lengthening shadows cast by the
buildings in the slowly gathering gloom of twilight.

    "Nothing I  haven't  already.  Nothing you  won't  find  out  soon
enough," Simkin replied nonchalantly.

    "I hear you spend a good deal of time with him," Saryon commented,
glancing at Simkin sharply. But the young man returned the glance with
a cool and sardonic smile.

    "They'll be saying the same of you shortly," he remarked.

    Shivering, Saryon drew his robes around him. The thoughts of  what
this warlock, this Enforcer turned outlaw, might ask him to do alarmed
him. Why had he never considered this before?

    Because I never expected to live  long enough to get here  before,
Saryon answered himself bitterly.  Now I am here,  and I have no  idea
what to do! Maybe, he said to himself hopefully, it won't be any  more
than giving these  people sufficient Life  so that they  can go  about
their work easier.  The thought of  the new mathematical  calculations
he'd made occurred to him. Surely that would be all they could  expect
of him...

    "Tell me,"  Saryon said  to Simkin  abruptly, glad  to change  the
subject and take his mind off one worry by investigating another, "how
do you manage to work that... that magic you do?..."

    "Oh, you've been admiring my hat?" Simkin inquired with a  pleased
air, twirling the cap's feather.  "Actually, the difficult part  comes
not with conjuring up the article but in deciding upon just the  right
shade of pink.  Too much,  and it makes  my eyes  look swollen-so  the
Duchess of Fenwick told me, and I rather fancy she's right-"

    "I don't mean the hat," Saryon snapped irritably, "I meant  the...
the tree.  Turning yourself  into a  tree! Its  quite impossible."  he
added,  "Mathematically  speaking.  I've   been  over  and  over   the
formula..."

    "Oh, I don't know a thing  about math," Simkin said with a  shrug.
"I just know it  works. I've been able  to do it since  I was a  small
tyke. Mosiah says it must be like lizards changing their skin color to
match rocks and  jolly things  like that. I'll  tell you  how it  came
about, if you like. We've got a ways to go, I'm afraid." His gaze went
to the tall building. Standing black against the reddish light of  the
setting sun, it cast a stark, dark shadow over the entire settlement.

    "I was abandoned  as a babe  in Merilon," Simkin  was saying in  a
subdued voice. "Dumped in a doorway. Left  on my own. I never knew  my
parents. I probably wasn't supposed to have happened, if you know what
I mean." Shrugging, he gave a short, forced laugh. "I was taken in  by
an old woman. Not out of charity, I  assure you. By the age of five  I
was working, picking  through refuse  for anything  valuable that  she
could sell. She beat  me regularly, for good  measure, and finally,  I
ran away, I grew up in the  streets of Lower City, the part you  don't
see  from  the  Crystal  Spires.  Do  you  have  any  idea  what   the
Duuk-tsarith do with abandoned children?"

    Saryon was staring at him in amazement. "Abandoned children? But-"

    "Me either," Simkin continued with his tight, little laugh.  "They
just... disappear... I saw it happen. Friends of mine. Vanished. Never
seen  nor  heard   from  again.  One   day,  the  Enforcers   suddenly
materialized in the street right before  me. I couldn't escape. I  can
still hear"-Simkin's  eyes  grew  dreamy-"the rustle  of  their  black
robes, so near me, so near... I was terrified. You can't imagine... My
one thought was that  they mustn't see me  and I concentrated on  that
thought with my whole being." He smiled suddenly. "And, you know what?
They didn't see me. The Duuk-tsarith  walked right past me... as  they
would have walked past any other water pail on the street."

    Saryon rubbed his head. "You're  saying that out of sheer  terror,
you were able to-"

    "Perform a remarkable transformation? Yes," Simkin replied with  a
touch of  modest pride.  "Later,  I learned  to  control it.  Thus,  I
survived many, many years."

    Saryon was silent a moment, then he said grimly, "What about  your
sister?"

    "Sister?" Simkin glanced at him  in bemusement. "What sister?  I'm
an orphan."

    "The sister  the  Coven is  holding  captive, remember?  And  then
there's your father?  The one  the Enforcers  dragged off.  The one  I
remind you of..."

    "I say, old fellow"-Simkin looked at him in deep concern-"you must
have received a smart blow to the  head when we jumped off the  cliff.
Whatever are you talking about?"

    "We didn't jump,"  Saryon said  through clenched  teeth. "We  fell
because you were rotten-"

    "Rotting!" Simkin stopped dead in  the street, his face  stricken.
"I am wounded, wounded deeply. Here, take my dagger"-one  materialized
in his hand-"and  stab me  in the  heart!" Yanking  aside his  brocade
coat, he  revealed a  broad expanse  of green  shirt. "I  can live  no
longer with the stain of this dishonor!"

    "Oh, come on!" Saryon  said, aware that  everyone in the  vicinity
was staring at them.

    "Not until you have apologized!" Simkin said dramatically.

    "Very well, I  apologize!" Saryon muttered,  staring at the  young
man in confusion so vast he couldn't even begin to frame questions.

    "I accept," Saryon  said graciously, and  the dagger  disappeared,
replaced by a flutter of orange silk.

    Looking into Joram's eyes, Saryon had seen a soul-tormented, dark,
burning with anger-but a soul nonetheless, its very passions giving it
life. Looking into the eyes of the warlock, Saryon saw nothing.  Flat,
opaque, the eyes regarded him fixedly for several moments, then,  with
a flicker of the thin lids, Blachloch bade him be seated.

    Saryon obeyed, his will  drained from him by  those eyes quite  as
effectively as by any spell.

    Duuk-tsarith. A privileged  class. Their  black-robed presence  in
Thimhallan granted security and peace. This did not come cheaply,  but
the people, remembering the old days, were willing to pay the price.

    Though vastly different, in many  ways the warlock class  mirrored
that of their opposites,  the catalysts. As powerful  in magic as  the
catalysts are weak,  the children born  to the Mystery  of Fire are  a
rarity in the world. They, too, are taken from their homes at an early
age and placed  in a school  whose very location  is secret. Here  the
powerful magic skills of the young witches and warlocks are  developed
and channeled. Here they are taught the strict, severe discipline that
will  henceforth  govern  their  lives.  The  training  is  harsh  and
demanding, for it is necessary to  leash this power and keep it  under
control. That was what  started the trouble long  ago in the old  Dark
World, so legend tells. Witches and warlocks, not content with keeping
their magic art hidden, went abroad into  the land to try to claim  it
as their own. They brought down  the wrath of the populace upon  their
race. The persecutions began that would eventually force many of their
people to flee the land and seek a new home among the stars.

    Most of those born with  the Mystery of Fire become  Duuk-tsarith,
the Enforcers, the lawkeepers of Thimhallan. A few, the most powerful,
become DKarn-Duuk, the War  Masters. There are,  of course, those  who
fail. Nothing is  said of these.  They do not  return to their  homes.
They simply vanish. It is widely believed that they are sent Beyond.

    What is their reward for this strict, dark life? Limitless  power.
The knowledge that even the Emperors themselves, though they do  their
best to hide it,  look with fear upon  those black-robed figures  that
glide silently about the Royal Palaces. For the Duuk-tsarith possess a
magical spell that is theirs and theirs alone. As the catalyst has the
power to grant  Life, the  Enforcer has the  power to  take that  Life
away. Rarely seen, rarely speaking, the Duuk-tsarith walk the  streets
or halls or fields, cloaked in invisibility, armed with the Null-magic
that can drain the Life from  mage or wizard, leaving him as  helpless
and powerless as a babe.

    Blachloch was one  of the  failures. Not content  with power,  the
story had it that he sought richer, more material reward. No one  knew
how he had  managed to escape.  It must  have been no  easy task,  and
proved the  man's  extraordinary  skill  and  cool  courage,  for  the
Duuk-tsarith live  together, isolated  in their  own small  community,
keeping themselves under a surveillance as strict as the  surveillance
of the populace.

    Saryon considered all of this as  he sat, chilled and nervous,  in
the presence of the black-robed warlock. Blachloch had been working in
his ledgers again and had, indeed, only laid such work aside once  the
catalyst and Simkin had been introduced by one of the henchmen.

    Wrapped in the accustomed silence of his kind, Blachloch stared at
Saryon, learning more from the way the man sat, from the lines on  the
face, from the  position of  the hands and  arms, than  he could  have
learned in an hour of interrogation.

    Though he fought to remain calm and unmoved, Saryon fidgeted under
the scrutiny. Terrifying memories of his own brief encounter with  the
Enforcers in the Font at the time of his crime made his throat dry and
the palms of his hands sweat. Part of their effectiveness lay in their
ability to intimidate by  their presence alone.  The black robes,  the
folded hands, the enforced  silence, the expressionless face-all  this
was carefully taught. Taught to engender one emotion-fear.

    "Your name, Father,"  was Blachloch's first  spoken words, not  so
much a question as a verification.

    "Saryon," the catalyst replied after a first unsuccessful  attempt
to speak.

    The warlock's hands rested on  his desk, the fingers  interlacing.
Silence as thick and  heavy as the black  robes he wore blanketed  the
room. Blachloch stared at the catalyst impassively.

    Gradually  becoming  more   and  more   unnerved,  feeling   those
penetrating eyes plunging deep into his soul, Saryon was not comforted
by the fact that even Simkin appeared subdued, the gaudy colors of his
attire seeming to fade in the  dark shadow of the warlock's  presence,
"Father," said Blachloch at last, "it is a custom in this village that
no one  questions a  man's  past. I  allow  this custom  to  continue,
generally because a man's  past doesn't mean a  damn thing to me.  But
there is something in your face  I don't like, Catalyst. In the  lines
around your eyes I see scholar, not renegade. In the sunburned skin  I
see one who  is accustomed to  spending long hours  in libraries,  not
fields. In the mouth, the set of the shoulders, the expression of  the
eyes, I see weakness. Yet  you are a man, so  I am told, who  rebelled
against your Order and  ran into the most  dangerous, deadly place  in
this world-the Outland. Therefore, tell me your story. Father Saryon."

    Saryon glanced at Simkin,  who was toying with  the bit of  orange
silk, affecting playfully to tie it around the feather in his cap that
sat on his lap. The young man  neither looked at him nor appeared  the
least bit interested in the proceedings. There was no help for it  but
to play this bitter game to its conclusion.

    "You are right, Duuk-tsarith-"

    Blachloch did not appear disturbed at  this use of a title he  had
no claim  to. Saryon  had  adopted it,  hearing  one of  his  henchmen
address him as such.

    "-I am  a  scholar. My  special  field of  study  is  mathematics.
Seventeen years ago," continued Saryon  in a low voice that  surprised
himself with its steadiness, "I committed a crime brought about by  my
thirst for knowledge. I was caught reading forbidden books-"

    "Which forbidden books?" interrupted Blachloch. As Duuk-tsarith he
would, of course, be familiar with most banned texts.

    "Those dealing with the Ninth Mystery," Saryon replied.

    Blachloch's eyelids  flickered, but  otherwise  he made  no  sign.
Pausing to see if the warlock  had any further questions, Saryon  felt
rather than saw  that Simkin was  listening attentively, with  unusual
interest. The catalyst  drew a breath.  "I was discovered.  Due to  my
youth, but due more to the fact, I believe, that my mother was  cousin
to the Empress,  my crime was  hushed up.  I was sent  to Merilon,  in
hopes that I would soon forget my interest in the Dark Arts."

    "Yes, so much I  know to be true,  Catalyst," said Blachloch,  his
hands unmoving,  still folded  together, still  resting on  his  desk.
"Continue."

    Saryon blanched, a tightening  sensation gripping his stomach.  He
had assumed  correctly that  Blachloch  would already  know  something
about him. The man undoubtedly still had contacts among the Enforcers,
and such information would  not be hard to  acquire. Then, of  course,
there was always Simkin. Who knew what game of his own he was playing?

    "I-I discovered that  I could  not help myself,  however. I  am...
fascinated by the Dark Arts. I was... an embarrassment to my Order  at
Court. It was a  simple thing to have  myself transferred back to  the
Font where I hoped to  continue-in secret, of course-my studies.  That
was not to be, however. My mother had just recently died. I had formed
no strong ties nor attachments at court. I was, therefore,  considered
a threat and so I was sent to the settlement of Walren."

    "A wretched  life-Field Catalyst,  but  a secure  one,"  Blachloch
remarked. "Certainly better than life  in the Outland." Moving  slowly
and deliberately,  the  two  index  fingers  of  the  warlock's  hands
unfolded and extended themselves.  It was the  first sign of  movement
the man had made since they entered, and both Simkin and Saryon  could
not help  but  watch, fascinated,  as  the fingers  came  together,  a
flesh-and-bone dagger, pointing at the catalyst. "Why did you leave?"

    "I heard about the Coven," Saryon answered, maintaining his steady
tone. "I was rotting in that village.  My mind was turning to mush.  I
came here to study and learn... the Dark Arts."

    Blachloch did not move or  speak. The fingers remained pointed  at
Saryon and, if they  had been a  dagger held to  his throat, he  could
have felt no greater pain or fear than he experienced staring at  them
as they rested upon the desk.

    "Very well,"  Blachloch  said suddenly,  the  sound of  his  voice
making the near-hypnotized catalyst start.  "You will study. Only  you
must learn not to faint at the sight of the iron forge."

    Blood rushed to Saryon's face.  Lowering his head before the  gaze
of those flat eyes, he hoped it would be taken for confusion, not  for
guilt. It hadn't been the sight of the forge itself that upset him-not
nearly as much as the sight of Joram.

    "You will be given a house in  the village and share in our  food.
But, like everyone else here, you will  be expected to work for us  in
return..."

    "I will be more than happy to provide my services to the people of
the settlement," Saryon said, "The Healer tells me that the  mortality
rate among the children is very great. I hope-"

    "We  will  be  leaving   within  the  week,"  pursued   Blachloch,
completely ignoring the catalyst's  words, "to lay  in stores for  the
winter. Our work in the forge and the mines takes up so much  manpower
that, as  you might  imagine, we  are unable  to devote  ourselves  to
raising food. The Field Magi settlements provide us with what we need,
therefore."

    "I will accompany  you, if that  is what you  want," said  Saryon,
somewhat mystified, "but I think I could be of much more use here-"

    "No, Father. You will be of  much more use to me," said  Blachloch
expressionlessly. "You see,  the villages  do not know  that they  are
going to be helping us through the  long winter. In the past, we  were
forced to depend on raids, stealing food by night. Demeaning work that
generally acquires very little. But"-he shrugged and moved his fingers
up to rest upon his lips-"we had  no magic. Now, we have you. We  have
Life. What is more important, we  have Death. This winter should be  a
good one for us, will it not, Simkin?"

    If this sudden question was intended to startle the young man,  it
did not succeed. Apparently absorbed in now trying to untie the orange
silk from around the feather, Simkin discovered that the knot was  too
tight. After tugging at it without result, he irritably consigned both
hat and silk to the ethers.

    "I really don't care what kind of winter you have, Blachloch,"  he
said with a bored air,  "since I'll be spending  most of it in  court.
Robbing the natives does sound a bit of a lark, though..."

    "I-I cannot help  you do that!"  Saryon stammered.  "Robbing-Those
people have barely enough to live on as it is-"

    "The penalty for running away, Catalyst, is the Turning. Have  you
ever seen it done? I have." The fingers on the lips moved,  descending
slowly to point  once more at  Saryon. "I can  see your mind  working,
scholar. Yes, as you surmised, I  have contacts still among my  Order.
Telling them where  to find you  would be simplicity  itself. I  would
even receive money. Not as much as I can earn using you, but enough to
make the thought one that I can consider with equanimity I suggest you
spend the remaining days learning how to ride a horse."

    The hands unfolded and separated,  one stretching out to grip  the
catalyst's arm. "It  is a pity  there is only  one of you,"  Blachloch
remarked, his eyes holding Saryon  in their imprisoning gaze. "Had  we
more catalysts, I could  mutate some of the  men and give them  wings,
allowing them to  attack from  the air. I  studied the  skills of  the
DKarn-Duuk for a time." The grip tightened painfully. "It was  thought
I might qualify as a War  Master, but I was considered...  unstable...
Still, if all goes well In the North Kingdom, who knows. Perhaps I may
be War  Master yet.  And now,  Catalyst, before  you leave,  grant  me
Life."

    Staring at the man in horror,  Saryon was so shaken that he  could
not, for the moment, remember the words of his ritual prayer.

    Blachloch's grasp tightened still further, fingers of Iron closing
over the catalyst's arm. "Grant me Life," he said softly.

    Bowing his head, Saryon complied. Opening his being to the  magic,
he drew it into him and let a portion of it flow through him into  the
warlock.

    "More," said Blachloch.

    "I can't-I am weak-"

    The grip grew tighter, enhanced  by magical energy. Sharp  needles
of pain darted through the catalyst's  arm. Gasping, he let the  magic
surge through him, suffusing the warlock with Life. Then he collapsed,
drained, back in his chair.

    His  face  expressionless,  Blachloch   released  him.  "You   are
dismissed."

    Though he did not speak and made no gesture, the door to the  room
opened and one of  the henchmen stepped  inside. Rising unsteadily  to
his feet,  Saryon  turned  numbly  and walked  toward  the  door  with
faltering steps.  Simkin, yawning,  rose too,  but subsided  into  his
chair again  upon  noticing  an almost-imperceptible  flicker  of  the
warlock's eyelids.

    "If you  can't find  your way  back, O  Bald One,"  called  Simkin
languidly, "wait for me. I'll just be a moment."

    Saryon did not hear him. The rushing of blood in his ears was  too
loud, unbalancing him. It was all he could do to walk.

    Glancing out the  window, into the  darkening evening, Simkin  saw
the catalyst  stagger and  nearly fall,  then lean  wearily against  a
tree.

    "I really should go  help the poor chap,"  Simkin said. "You  were
rather brutal with him, after all."

    "He's lying."

    "Egad, my  dear Blachloch,  according to  you Duuk-tsarith,  there
isn't a person alive on  this planet from the age  of six weeks on  up
who ever breathes a word of truth."

    "You know the real reason why he is here."

    "I told you already, O Merciless Master. Bishop Vanya sent him."

    The warlock stared at the young man.

    Simkin blanched. "It's the truth. He's after Joram," he muttered.

    Blachloch raised an eyebrow. "Joram?" he repeated.

    Simkin shrugged. "The young man  they brought from the  settlement
half-dead. The dark one with the hair... Chap who killed the overseer.
He works in the forge-"

    "I know  him,"  Blachloch said  with  a shade  of  irritation.  He
continued to stare intently at the  young man, who was gazing out  the
window at Saryon. "Look at me, Simkin," the warlock said softly.

    "Very  well,  if  you  insist,  although  I  find  you   extremely
uninteresting," Simkin replied, attempting to stifle a yawn.  Lounging
back in his chair, one silk-clad leg thrown over the armrest, he gazed
at Blachloch obligingly.  "I say,  do you use  a lemon  rinse on  your
hair? If so, it's starting to go  a bit dark at the roots-"  Suddenly,
Simkin stiffened, his playful voice grew harsh. "Stop it, Blachloch. I
know what... you're trying to  do..." His words trailed off  drowsily.
"I've been... shrough thish be... bevore..."

    Shaking his head, Simkin  tried to break free,  but the flat  blue
eyes of the  Enforcer held  him fast in  their unblinking,  unwavering
stare. Slowly, the eyelids of the young man fluttered, blinked, opened
wide, then fluttered, blinked, fluttered, and closed.

    Murmuring words of magic, ancient words of power and spellbinding,
Blachloch rose slowly and silently to  his feet and walked around  the
desk to stand near Simkin. Chanting the words over and over again in a
soothing refrain, he  rested his hands  upon Simkin's smooth,  shining
hair. The warlock closed his eyes and, throwing his head back, exerted
all his powers of concentration upon  the young man. "Let me see  into
your mind. The truth, Simkin, tell me everything you know..."

    Simkin began to whisper something.

    Smiling, Blachloch stooped low to hear.

    "I  call  it...  Grape  Rose...  .  Mind  the  thorns...  I  don't
believe... they're poisonous..."

    9

    The Experiment Night flowed into the village like the dark  waters
of the  river, submerging  fears and  sorrows in  its gentle  current.
Around the  brick houses  it  crept, its  shadows growing  deeper  and
deeper, for it was  a cloudy, moonless  night. Gradually almost  every
light in  the village  was  engulfed by  the rising  darkness,  nearly
everyone let sleep wash over him,  sinking down into the murky  depths
of dreams, But when night was at its flood, when the silent waters  of
sleep were at their  deepest, light from the  forge continued to  glow
red, burning away sleep and dreams for one person at least.

    The firelight glistened in black curling hair, flickered in  brown
eyes, and beat upon a face now neither sullen nor angry but intent and
eager. Within  the fires  of the  forge, Joram  heated iron  ore in  a
crucible, iron that he had ground as finely as he could. The mold  for
a dagger sat to  one side of the  young man, but he  did not pour  the
molten iron  into it.  Instead, he  lifted another  crucible from  the
fire, this containing  a molten  liquid similar in  appearance to  the
iron except for its strange white-purple color.

    Joram  regarded  the  second  crucible  thoughtfully,  a  look  of
frustration causing the thick, black brows to contract.

    "If I  only I  knew what  they  meant," he  muttered. "If  only  I
understood!" Closing his eyes, he called to mind the pages of  ancient
writing. He could see the letters, could see every shape and twist and
idiosyncrasy of the hand that had  formed them, in fact, so often  had
he mulled over and studied  the page. But it  did not help. Again  and
again before his eyes rose those strange symbols that might have  been
another language to him for all the meaning they conveyed.

    Finally, with a bitter shrug and a shake of his head, Joram tilted
the contents of the  second crucible into the  first, watching as  the
hot liquid  streamed  into the  burning  pool of  iron.  He  continued
pouring until he had nearly doubled the measure of iron, then stopped.
Looking at the mixture, he shrugged again and added a bit more for  no
particular reason  except  that  it felt  right.  Putting  the  second
crucible aside carefully, Joram stirred the molten mixture,  examining
it with a critical eye. He saw  nothing out of the ordinary. Was  this
good or bad? He didn't know and, with another frustrated shrug, poured
the alloy into the dagger mold.

    It would cool quickly, the text had noted, minutes compared to the
hours it took to  cool iron. Still,  it did not  seem quick enough  to
Joram. His fingers itched to strike off the mold and see the object he
had created. To take  his mind off it,  he lifted the second  crucible
and returned it to its hiding  place among a pile of cast-off,  broken
tools and other refuse  of the smithy's. This  done, he walked to  the
front of the cavern and peered through the cracks of the crude  wooden
door. The village was  silent, drowned in sleep.  Nodding his head  in
satisfaction, Joram returned to the forge.  It must be ready now.  His
hands shaking in anticipation, he  struck aside the wooden forms  that
held the mold, then broke the mold itself.

    The object within  had only  the very crudest  resemblance to  the
weapon it would become. Lifting it  out with the tongs, he plunged  it
into the fires of the  forge, heating it until  it glowed red hot,  as
the text had instructed. Carrying the  dagger to the anvil, he  lifted
his hammer  and,  with practiced  blows,  pounded it  into  shape.  He
hurried, being  not too  particular as  to the  weapon's  construction
since this was only  a test. What happened  next was critical, and  he
was anxious to proceed.  At last, deeming the  dagger good enough  for
his purposes, he  lifted it  by the tongs  again and,  drawing a  deep
breath, plunged the hot weapon into a bucket of water.

    Steam billowed up in a  cloud, momentarily blinding him. But  with
the hiss of the red-hot iron in the water came another sound, a  sharp
crack. Joram's  heavy  brows drew  together  in a  scowl.  Impatiently
waving his  hand to  clear the  air,  he jerked  the weapon  from  the
water-and brought up only  a shattered fragment.  Hurling it onto  the
refuse pile  with  a  bitter curse,  he  was  about to  dump  out  the
worthless alloy he had produced when  a prickling feeling at the  base
of his neck made him turn around quickly.

    "You work late,  Joram," said  Blachloch. The  warlock's face  was
visible as he  stepped into  the light of  the forge,  along with  the
hands that  he held  clasped in  front of  him in  the manner  of  the
Enforcers. Other  than those,  he  was a  patch  of night  within  the
red-lit forge, the black of his robes absorbing the light and even the
warmth of the fire.

    "It was my punishment," said Joram coolly, having had this  matter
arranged beforehand. "I was negligent in my work today and the  master
ordered I stay until the dagger was finished."

    "It appears that you will be here most of the night," the  warlock
stated, his cold-eyed gaze going to the refuse pile.

    Joram shrugged, his face flowing into its embittered, angry  lines
much as the molten iron had flowed into the mold. "I will if I am  not
permitted to get on with my work," he said sullenly, walking around to
pump the bellows. Deliberately turning  his back upon the warlock,  he
almost, but not quite, shouldered the black-robed man aside.

    A tiny line creased Blachloch's smooth forehead, his lips  pressed
together, but there  was no  sign of  annoyance or  irritation in  his
voice. "I understand that you claim to be of noble birth."

    Grunting from the exertion of his labors, Joram did not bother  to
reply. Not  appearing surprised  or  disconcerted by  this,  Blachloch
moved to where he could see the young man's face.

    "You can read."

    Joram paused  in his  work for  an instant,  but continued  almost
immediately, the muscles in  his back and  arms rippling and  knotting
with the exertion as he operated the  device that sent a blast of  air
onto the coals of the forge.

    "I hear you have been reading the books."

    Joram might have been deaf. His arms moved in unceasing,  rhythmic
motion, his dark hair fell forward, curling about his face.

    "A little knowledge  to one who  is otherwise ignorant  is like  a
dagger in the hands of  a child, Joram. It  can hurt him very  badly,"
Blachloch continued. "I would have thought you had learned your lesson
when you committed murder."

    Glancing at Blachloch through the tangle of his black hair,  Joram
smiled a smile only visible in the dark, fire-lit eyes, "I would  have
thought there was a lesson there you could learn," he said.

    "You see?  You are  threatening  me." From  his calm,  even  tone,
Blachloch  might  have  been  speaking  of  the  weather,  "The  child
brandishes the dagger.  You will  cut yourself upon  its sharp  edges,
Joram,"   the   warlock   murmured.    "You   really   will.    Either
yourself-Blachloch lifted  his shoulders-"or  someone else.  Can  your
friend... What's his name... Mosiah? Can he read?"

    Joram's face darkened,  the steady pumping  of the bellows  slowed
slightly. "No," he answered. "Leave him out of this."

    "I thought not," Blachloch said blandly.  "You and I are the  only
ones in the village who can read,  Joram. And I think that is one  too
many of us, but there  is nothing I can  do about it-short of  melting
your eyes in your head."

    For the first time, the  warlock moved his hands, unclasping  them
and bringing one up to stroke the thin blond mustache that ran  across
his upper lip.  Joram had  ceased to work.  Keeping his  hands on  the
handles of the bellows, he stared fixedly into the fire.

    Blachloch drew nearer. "It would grieve me to destroy the books."

    Joram stirred, "The old man will never tell you where they are."

    "He would," Blachloch  said with a  smile, "in time.  In time,  he
would be  searching for  things to  tell me.  I have  not pressed  him
before on the matter  because it simply  wasn't worth upsetting  these
people by resorting to violence. It would  be a pity if I were  forced
to change my policy, particularly now that I have the magic."

    Joram's face flushed, burning in  the light of the glowing  coals.
"You won't have to," he muttered.

    "Good." Blachloch  clasped  his  hands together  once  again.  "We
Duuk-tsarith know something of these books, you know. There are things
written in them  that the world  is better off  for having lost."  The
warlock stared intently at Joram, who remained standing where he  was,
looking into the fire.

    "You remind me of  myself, young man,"  Blachloch said. "And  that
makes me nervous.  I, too,  hated authority. I,  too, believed  myself
above it"-the faintest  tinge of  sarcasm colored  his otherwise  gray
voice-"though I  am not  of noble  blood.  To rid  myself of  those  I
believed were oppressing  me, I,  like you,  committed murder  without
guilt, without remorse. You liked that taste of power, didn't you? And
now you crave more. Yes, I see it, I feel it burn in you. I've watched
you learn, this past year, to  manipulate people, to use them and  get
them to do what you  want. You got the old  man to show you the  books
that way, didn't you?"

    Joram did not  answer or raise  his gaze from  the flame. But  his
left fist clenched.

    Blachloch smiled, a smile that was  dark in the firelight. "I  see
great things before you, Joram. In  time you will learn how to  handle
this lust that consumes you. But you are a child still, as young as  I
was when I  committed my  first impetuous  act-the act  that drove  me
here. There is one difference, though, between you and me, Joram.  The
man I sought to  displace was not  aware of me or  of my ambition.  He
turned his back upon me." Unclasping  his hands, the warlock laid  one
upon the  young man's  arm. Even  in the  warmth of  the forge,  Joram
shivered at the chill touch, "I am  aware, Joram, and I will not  turn
my back upon you."

    "Why don't you just  kill me," Joram muttered  with a sneer,  "and
have done with it."

    "Why not indeed," Blachloch repeated, "You are of little use to me
now, though you may be when you are older. Whether you grow older will
depend upon you and those who take an interest in you."

    "What do you  mean, 'those  who take  an interest  in me'?"  Joram
glanced at him.

    "The catalyst."

    Joram shrugged.

    "He is here for you. Why?"

    "Because I am a murderer-"

    "No,"  Blachloch  said  softly.  "Enforcers  hunt  murderers,  not
catalysts. Why? What is he here for?"

    "I have no idea,"  Joram replied impatiently.  "Ask him... or  ask
Simkin."

    Blachloch's eyes  stared  searchingly into  Joram's.  The  warlock
began speaking words of magic. He  saw the brown eyes glaze, the  lids
droop. Moving his hand up to touch Joram's face, the warlock raised an
eyebrow. "You are  telling the truth.  You don't know,  do you,  young
man. What's  more, you  don't believe  Simkin. I'm  not certain  I  do
either, and yet-How can I risk it? What is Simkin's game?"

    Irritably, the warlock dropped his hand.

    Feeling as  though he  had awakened  from a  disturbed and  fitful
sleep, Joram  blinked and  glanced quickly  around the  forge. He  was
alone.

    10

    The Spy "Bishop Vanya has retired to his private chambers for  the
evening," was the message  the Deacon who acted  as secretary gave  to
all who asked to see His Holiness.

    These were  not many;  everyone living  in the  Font, and  a  good
majority of those who did not,  being very familiar with the  Bishop's
habits. He retired to his chambers to have the evening meal in private
or with those few fortunate enough  to be invited as guests. While  in
his chambers, he  was not to  be disturbed for  anything short of  the
assassination of  any  of the  Emperors.  (Death of  the  Emperors  by
natural causes could wait  until morning.) Duuk-tsarith stood  outside
the Bishop's  chambers,  their sole  task  to make  certain  that  His
Holiness remained undisturbed.

    There were several reasons for this well-guarded privacy,  reasons
both public and  private. Publicly  it was known  all over  Thimhallan
that Bishop Vanya was something of a gourmand and refused to allow any
sort of unpleasantness to  interrupt his dinner.  Guests at his  table
were carefully selected  to provide  interesting and  noncontroversial
dinnertime  conversation,  which  was  viewed  as  important  to   the
digestion.

    Publicly it  was known  that Bishop  Vanya worked  extremely  hard
during the day, devoting himself  completely to matters of the  Church
(and state). Rising before the sun, he rarely left his office until it
had set. After such a rigorous day, it was important to his health  to
have these hours of unbroken rest and relaxation in the evening.

    Publicly it was known  that the Bishop used  these quiet hours  in
meditation and discussion with the Almin.

    These were the public reasons. The  real reason, of course, was  a
private one, known only  to the Bishop. Vanya  used these quiet  hours
for discussion-but not with the Almin. Those to whom he talked were of
a more worldly nature...

    There had been guests  to dinner this autumn  night, but they  had
left early, the Bishop  indicating that he  felt unusually tired  that
evening. After the guests had gone, however, Vanya did not proceed  to
his bedchambers as might  have been expected.  Instead, moving with  a
swiftness and an alacrity that accorded ill with pleas of  exhaustion,
the Bishop removed the spell that sealed off a small, private  chapel,
and opened the door.

    A beautiful and peaceful place, the chapel was built along ancient
lines and traditions.  Its dark  interior was  illuminated by  stained
glass windows conjured up  many centuries ago by  the most skilled  of
artisans whose speciality  lay in glass  shaping. Benches of  rosewood
stood before an altar of  crystal, also centuries old, decorated  with
the symbols of the Nine Mysteries.

    Here Vanya performed the Ritual of Dawn, the Evening Prayers,  and
sought  guidance   and  counsel   of   the  Almin-something   he   did
infrequently, if at all, it being Bishop Vanya's private opinion  that
it was the  Almin who  could use the  guidance and  counseling of  his
minister, not the other way around.

    Vanya entered the  chapel, which  was illuminated  by a  perpetual
gleam of  light  shining  from  the altar,  as  pale  and  restful  as
moonbeams, gracing the chamber with an air of peaceful tranquility.

    There was neither peace nor tranquility in the Bishop as he walked
through the chapel, however. Moving  swiftly, without a glance at  the
altar, Vanya crossed  the room  and came to  stand before  one of  the
handsomely decorated wooden  panels that  formed the  interior of  the
small chapel.  Laying his  hand upon  the panel,  the Bishop  murmured
secret, arcane words and the  panel dissolved beneath his  fingertips.
Before him opened up  a vast void, empty  and dark-a Corridor. But  it
was not  an  ordinary Corridor,  not  part  of that  vast  network  of
time-dimensional tunnels created long ago by the Diviners that crossed
and crisscrossed Thimhallan.  This Corridor  had been  created by  the
Diviners, but it connected to no other Corridor. Only one man knew  of
its existence-the Bishop of the Realm-and it went to only one place.

    It was to that place  that Bishop Vanya proceeded, arriving  there
within the space  of a heartbeat.  Stepping out of  the Corridor,  the
Bishop was in  a pocket  made of the  very material  of the  Corridors
themselves, a pocket that existed only  in the warped fabric of  space
and time. It seemed  to Vanya that whenever  he entered this place  he
was entering some dark and inner part of his own mind.

    He could see nothing within this  place, nor could he touch  walls
or feel a floor, though he had the sensation that he walked in it.  He
had the impression that the pocket of time and space was round.  There
was a chair in  the center where  he could sit  down, if his  business
proved long. But  the chair may  have well  been in his  mind, for  it
seemed to have armrests when he wanted  them and to lack them when  he
didn't. At times  it was soft,  at others times  firm, and  sometimes,
when he was irritated or pressed for  time or felt like walking as  he
talked, the chair wasn't there at all.

    This evening, the chair was there  and, this evening, it was  soft
and comfortable. Sitting in it, Vanya relaxed. This was not a  meeting
that  demanded  the  application  of  subtle  pressures,  threats,  or
coercion. It was not one of  delicate negotiation. This was a  meeting
of an  informative nature,  clarification,  reassurance that  all  was
proceeding according to plan.

    Settling back,  Vanya  allowed  himself a  moment  to  absorb  and
activate the magic in  the room that  permitted this communication  to
work, then he spoke aloud into the darkness.

    "My friend, a word with you."

    The magic pulsed around him, he could feel it whisper against  his
cheek and stir across the fingers of his hand.

    "I am at your service."

    It was the darkness  that spoke to Vanya,  though human lips  well
over hundreds of miles distant formed the words. Because of the  magic
within the room,  the Bishop heard  the words as  his own mind  formed
them, not necessarily as the person on the other end of his  conscious
thought spoke  them.  Thus  the  room was  known  as  the  Chamber  of
Discretion, for two  people could  converse with  each other,  neither
knowing the  other's identity  unless it  was revealed,  neither  ever
being able to recognize  the other by sight  or sound. In the  ancient
days, so  legend had  it, there  had been  several of  these  chambers
built-each of  the Royal  Houses, for  example, had  one, as  did  the
various Guilds.  Following  the  Second  Rectification,  however,  the
catalysts had  moved swiftly  to see  that the  other pockets  in  the
Corridors were sealed up,  giving as pretext the  reasoning that in  a
world of peace, no one need have secrets from each other.

    It was assumed by all parties  that when the catalysts sealed  off
the other Chambers  of Discretion, they  sealed off their  own in  the
Font as well. Which only goes to prove the old adage that  assumptions
are lies believed by the blind.

    "Are you alone?" Vanya's mind queried his unseen minion.

    "For the moment. But I am busy. We ride within the week."

    "I am aware of that. Did the catalyst arrive?"

    "Yes."

    "Safely?"

    "In a manner of speaking.  He is better now,  if that is what  you
mean. At  least  he has  no  desire to  venture  by himself  into  the
Outland."

    "Good. He will perform adequately?"

    "I see no problem. He seems, as you described him, naive and weak,
easily intimidated, but-"

    "Bah! The man is a mass  of quivering jelly. He may cause  trouble
once, but that  will be  dealt with harshly,  I presume.  Once he  has
learned his lesson, I foresee no further problems."

    "I hope not." The voice in Vanya's head sounded skeptical, causing
the Bishop to frown.

    "Where are  the  Technologists in  terms  of the  forging  of  the
weapons?" Vanya continued.

    "With this catalyst's help, production should accelerate rapidly."

    "How are matters progressing in  Sharakan? Have you contacted  His
Majesty there?"

    "You probably know  more about that  than I do,  Holiness. I  must
move cautiously, of course. I cannot afford to reveal my hand. It is a
dangerous game I play. His Majesty has been discreetly informed of the
acquisition of a catalyst and how it will affect us. That is the  best
I could do."

    "Adequate. His Majesty must be  confident of you. His demeanor  is
becoming increasingly warlike. We are, of course, attempting to  quell
this storm"-Vanya  made  a  gesture  with his  hand  as  of  smoothing
turbulent water-"and when the time comes  we will be grieved to  admit
our failure. Things are moving here. The Empress's brother is becoming
a nuisance, but he is easily dealt with. When war is declared, we will
be ready to act. Is there anything else?"

    "Yes. What about Joram? What does this catalyst intend to do  with
him?"

    "What does it matter to you? The boy is a cat's-paw, nothing more.
The only thing you need concern yourself with is keeping him alive."

    "What are the catalyst's instructions? What will he do?"

    "Do? I doubt if he has the guts to do anything. I have recommended
caution to him. He is to report to me in a month or so. I will entreat
him to move slowly in the  matter. But make your preparations. When  I
give you  the word,  you will  need  to move  swiftly. You  have  your
orders. Do I need to remind  you of them?" Vanya's frown deepened.  "I
sense dissatisfaction in you, my friend.  I am not accustomed to  this
questioning. What is wrong? Has your disguise been penetrated?"

    "Of course not,  Bishop." The voice  grew cold. "We  both know  my
talents. That was why  you chose me. But  certain matters have  arisen
that were unexpected.  Someone is  taking a greater  interest in  this
than I like."

    "Who?" Vanya demanded.

    "I think you know." The voice  inside Vanya's head was smooth,  "I
think, in fact, that you have dealt me marked cards."

    "How dare-"

    "I dare  because of  who I  am. And  now, I  must go.  Someone  is
coming. Remember, Holiness, in my hand, I hold the king."

    The magical link  between the  two broke,  leaving Vanya  sitting,
staring into  the  darkness, his  lips  pursed, his  fingers  crawling
spiderlike over the  arm of his  chair. "King? Yes,  my friend. But  I
hold swords."

    BOOK THREE

    * The Scianc * 1 Choose Three Cards...

    * 2 Grant Me Life...

    * 3 The Raid * 4 Prisoners * 5 Tempted...

    * 6 Fallen  * 7 The  Storm * 8  The Forging of  the Darksword *  9
Simkin's Deal * 10 The Fall of the Cards * 11 Saryon's Turn * 12  King
of Swords

    The Scianc We are many, but we are not one.

    If the Technologists  had risen  in a group  and rebelled  against
Blachloch, the warlock and  his henchmen must  have fallen. Without  a
catalyst to  grant  him  Life,  the  Enforcer's  magical  powers  were
limited. His henchmen,  few in number,  could not have  held out  long
against hundreds. These hundreds did  not arise, however. Most of  the
Sorcerers were, in fact, in complete agreement with Blachloch's  plans
for joining with the people of Sharakan and declaring war. It was time
for the Sorcerers to bring the power of the Ninth Mystery back to  the
world, to once more take their rightful place among the inhabitants of
Thimhallan. And if they had to bring death and destruction back to the
world as well, wouldn't  this be mitigated by  the wonders they  would
introduce, wonders that would improve life?

    There were those among the  Technologists who were wise enough  to
see that in this  kind of dream, the  Sorcerers were simply  repeating
the tragic  mistakes  of  the  past. But  these  people  were  in  the
minority. It was  all very  well for  Andon, an  old man,  to talk  of
patience and peace. The young were sick and tired of skulking about in
the wilderness, leading dreary lives  of drudgery when the riches  and
wealth of the world could be theirs, should be theirs.

    Thus they  followed  Blachloch  wholeheartedly,  abandoning  their
farms, working with a  will in the  mines and the  forge to craft  the
weapons that were to carve them a future.

    This future came  to be  embodied for  them in  the monument  that
stood in the  center of the  village-the Great Wheel.  Older than  the
village itself, the Wheel had been rescued from the destruction of the
Sorcerers' Temples by the persecuted Technologists following the  Iron
Wars. They brought it with them as they fled for their lives into  the
Outlands, and now it hangs  in the center of  an arch formed of  black
rock. The huge wheel with its nine  spokes has become the center of  a
ritual known in the village as the Scianc.

    Who knows how the  ritual began? Its roots  are buried in the  mud
and blood of the past. Perhaps,  long ago, when the Sorcerers saw  the
knowledge they had worked so hard to acquire sinking into the darkness
of their harsh lives,  they used this  method to try  to pass on  what
they  had  learned  to  the  next  generations.  Unfortunately,   next
generations remembered only  the words, the  knowledge and the  wisdom
dwindled and burned out like the flame of a guttered candle.

    On the seventh night of every  week, the entire population of  the
village gathers  around the  Wheel  and recites  the chant  that  each
learns as a child.  Accompanied by the music  of instruments of  iron,
tortured wood, and stretched animal skins, the chant begins by  paying
homage to the three major  forces in the Sorcerers' lives-Fire,  Wind,
and Water. With voices that rise higher and higher as the music of the
instruments becomes more frenetic, the people sing of the construction
and building and development of wonders  that no one now remembers  or
understands.

    On the night  before the  men of the  village were  to leave  with
Blachloch on  the raid  of  the farming  communities, the  Scianc  was
particularly wild, the  former Duuk-tsarith cleverly  using it as  the
DKarn-Duuk uses the war dance-to heat the blood until human conscience
and compassion is  burned away. Round  and round the  great Wheel  the
chanters danced, the beating and  strumming of the instruments  adding
their inhuman voices  to the melee.  Torches lit the  darkness and  in
their light,  the  Wheel-forged  of  some type  of  shiny  metal,  the
knowledge of whose making had  been lost-shone in the torchlight  like
an unholy sun.  Occasionally one  of the  dancers leaped  up onto  the
black stone platform that supported the monument. Grabbing hold of one
of the forge's hammers, he would strike the center of the  nine-spoked
Wheel, causing it to join  in the chanting with  a voice of iron  that
seemed to shout from the bowels of the earth itself.

    Most of the  Sorcerers took part  in the Scianc,  men, women,  and
children, chanting the words no one understood, dancing in the flaming
light, or watching with mixed emotions.

    Andon watched in  sorrow, hearing in  the words of  the chant  the
voices of the ancients  crying out to their  children to remember  the
past.

    Saryon watched in a horror so vast  it was a wonder he did not  go
mad. The flaring lights, the  shrieking music, the leaping figures  of
men  and  women  drunk  with  bloodlust-all  seemed  sprung  from  his
carefully taught visions of Hell. He paid no attention to the words of
the chant, he was too sickened.  Here dwelt Death, and himself in  the
midst of it.

    Blachloch watched in satisfaction, his black-robed figure standing
well outside the  circle of  dancers, calm,  observant, unnoticed.  He
heard the words  of the  chant, but he'd  heard them  often, and  they
didn't matter anymore.

    Joram watched in frustration. He heard the words. What's more,  he
listened to them and he understood them-in part. He alone had read the
hidden books. He alone,  of all those there,  saw the knowledge  those
ancient Sorcerers had hoped  to impart to their  children. He saw  it,
but he didn't understand it. The knowledge remained locked up in those
words, locked up in  the books. And he  couldn't find the key-the  key
that was in strange, unfathomable symbols.

    Simkin watched, bored.

    With the rising of the moon, the Scianc ended. Standing in a  ring
of flame made  by the  flaring torches, Blachloch  wielded the  hammer
that struck the Wheel  nine times. The people  raised their voices  in
nine wild shouts,  then the fiery  ring broke apart  as the  Sorcerers
walked to their homes, talking of the great deeds they would do  when,
once again, the Ninth Mystery ruled the world.

    Soon the black rock arches  stood alone, casting eerie shadows  as
the moon rose higher, its pale light shining on the Wheel nothing more
than a ghostly reflection of  the brilliant torchfire. In the  moonlit
darkness, the village slept, wrapped in a silence that was broken only
by  the  sounds  of  autumn's  dry,  dead  leaves-blown  by  a   chill
wind-skittering and rustling through the empty streets.

    1

    Choose Three Cards...

    On a bright, sunny day in late autumn, most of the men and boys of
the Sorcerers' village  rode out  to take, as  they saw  it, what  the
world owed them. Andon watched them go with eyes that held the sadness
of centuries.  He had  done what  he could  to stop  them but  he  had
failed. They had to learn their lesson, he supposed. The old man  only
hoped it would not be too bitter. Or too costly.

    The first days  of the  journey were  days of  sunshine and  clear
weather-warm and pleasant during  the hours of  light, cool and  crisp
with the hint  of the  coming winter  at night.  Blachloch's band  was
lighthearted and merry; the young men, especially, enjoying the  break
from the drudgery of work in the forge or the gristmill, the mines  or
bricklaying. Led by the riotous Simkin,  who was again dressed in  his
ranger clothing in honor of the occasion ("I call this color Dirt  and
Dung"), the young men  laughed and joked and  teased each other  about
their difficulties in  riding the shaggy,  half-wild horses that  were
raised in the village. At night they gathered around a blazing fire to
swap stories and  play games of  chance with the  older men,  wagering
winter rations of food and losing them so consistently that it  seemed
likely none of them would eat until spring.

    Even the  usually morose  Joram appeared  better for  the  change,
astonishing Mosiah by his willingness to talk, if he did not share  in
the horseplay and joking.  But then, Mosiah  reflected, this may  have
had something to  do with the  fact that  Joram had just  come out  of
another one of his black melancholies.

    By the second week, however, the fun  had gone out of the ride.  A
chill rain dripped from the  yellowing leaves, soaking through  cloaks
and trickling down the back. The  soft plopping of the drops formed  a
monotonous rhythm  with  the  horses'  plodding  hoofbeats.  The  rain
settled in,  falling  steadily  for  days.  There  were  no  fires  by
Blachloch's orders. They were  in centaur country  now, and the  watch
had been doubled, which meant many lost half a night's sleep. Everyone
was miserable and  grumbling, but there  was one person  so much  more
obviously miserable than the rest that Mosiah couldn't help noticing.

    Joram noticed too,  apparently. Every  now and then  Mosiah saw  a
look of shadowed  pleasure in  Joram's dark  eyes and  there would  be
almost a half-smile upon the lips. Following Joram's gaze, Mosiah  saw
him looking  at  the  catalyst,  who  rode  ahead  of  them,  jouncing
uncomfortably in the  saddle, his tonsured  head bowed, his  shoulders
slumped. The catalyst was a pathetic sight on horseback. The first few
days he had been stiff with fright. Now he was just plain stiff. Every
bone and  muscle in  his body  hurt. Just  sitting in  the saddle  was
obviously painful.

    "I feel sorry  for the  man," Mosiah said  on the  second week  of
their journey north. Chilled  and soaked, he,  Joram, and Simkin  were
riding together down  a stretch of  trail that was  wide enough for  a
cavalry brigade to  have ridden  six abreast. Giants  had blazed  this
trail, Blachloch said, warning them all to be alert.

    "What man?" Joram asked. He had been listening to Simkin elaborate
on how the Duke of Westshire had hired the entire Stone Shapers Guild,
together with six catalysts, to completely redo his palatial  dwelling
in Merilon,  transforming  it  from  crystal  to  rose-colored  marble
streaked with flecks of pale green.

    "The court can talk of nothing  else. Such a thing has never  been
done before. Imagine, marble!  It looks quite... ponderous..."  Simkin
was saying.

    "The catalyst.  What's his  name? I  feel sorry  for him,"  Mosiah
said.

    "Saryon?" Simkin appeared slightly confused. "Pardon me, dear boy,
but what has he to do with rose-colored marble?"

    "Nothing," returned Mosiah. "I was just watching the expression on
Joram's face. He seems to be enjoying the poor man's misery."

    "He's a  catalyst," Joram  replied shortly  "And you're  wrong.  I
don't care enough to think about him one way or the other."

    "Mmmm," Mosiah muttered, seeing Joram's  dark eyes grow darker  as
they stared at the man's green-robed back.

    "He's from your village, you know," Simkin commented, leaning over
his horse's neck to talk confidentially in a loud voice that could  be
heard by nearly everyone in line.

    "Keep your voice down! He'll hear us. What do you mean, he's  from
our village?" Mosiah asked, astonished.  "Why didn't you say  anything
before? Maybe he knows my parents!"

    "I'm certain I said something," Simkin protested with an aggrieved
air, "when I told you about his coming for Joram-"

    "Shh!" Mosiah hissed. "That nonsense!"  Biting his lip, the  young
man stared  at the  catalyst with  a  wistful air.  "I wonder  how  my
parents are? It's been so long..."

    "Oh, go ahead!  Talk to  him!" snapped Joram,  his black  eyebrows
drawing a straight, hard line across his face.

    "Yes, go have  a chat with  the old boy,"  Simkin said  languidly.
"He's not a bad sort,  really, as catalysts go.  And I've got no  more
cause to love them than you, O Dark and Gloomy Friend, I told you they
stole away my baby  brother, didn't I? Little  Nat. Poor tyke.  Failed
the Testing. We had him hidden away until he was five. But they  found
out about him-one of the neighbors snitched. Grudge against my mother.
I was Nat's favorite,  you know. The little  fellow clung to me,  when
they were dragging him off."

    Two tears rolled down Simkin's face into his beard, Mosiah  heaved
an exasperated sigh.

    "That's it!"  said Simkin,  sniffing.  "Mock my  affliction.  Make
light of my  sorrow. If  you'll excuse  me," he  muttered, more  tears
streaming down his face, mingling with the rainwater, "I will  indulge
my grief in private. You two go on. No, it's no use trying to  comfort
me. Not in  the slightest..." Mumbling  incoherently, Simkin  suddenly
wheeled his horse around and left the trail, galloping back toward the
rear of the line.

    "Mock his affliction! How  many brothers is  that who've met  some
appalling fate?" Snorting in disgust,  Mosiah glanced back at  Simkin,
who was wiping tears from  his face and calling  out a rude remark  to
one of  Blachloch's henchmen  at the  same time.  "To say  nothing  of
assorted sisters held captive by nobles or hauled off by centaurs, not
counting the one who ran away from home because she was enamored of  a
giant. Then there's the aunt, who drowned in a public fountain because
she thought she was a swan, and his mother, who has died five times of
five different rare diseases  and once of a  broken heart because  the
Duuk-tsarith arrested his father for conjuring up offensive  illusions
of the Emperor. All of this happening to an orphan who was  discovered
floating in a  basket of rose  petals down the  Merilon sewer  system.
He's a monumental liar! I don't see how can you put up with him!"

    "Because he's  an amusing  liar," Joram  replied, shrugging,  "And
that makes him different."

    "Different?"

    "From all the rest  of you," Joram said,  glancing at Mosiah  from
beneath his  heavy,  dark  brows.  "Why don't  you  go  talk  to  your
catalyst," he suggested coolly, seeing  Mosiah's face flush in  anger.
"If what I  hear is  true, he's  in for  a lot  worse punishment  than
saddle sores."

    Digging his heels into the  horse's flanks, Joram galloped  ahead,
riding past the catalyst without a  glance, his horse flinging up  mud
from its hooves.  Mosiah saw  the catalyst  raise his  head and  stare
after the young  man, whose  long black  hair, whipped  free from  its
bindings, glistened in the rain like the plumage of a wet bird.

    "Why do I  put up  with you?"  Mosiah muttered,  gazing after  the
figure of his friend. "Pity? You'd hate me for that. But it's true, in
a way. I can understand why you refuse to trust anyone. The scars  you
bear aren't only from wounds on your chest. But, some day, my  friend,
those scars are going to be nothing-nothing-compared to the scar  from
the wound you're going to get when you find out you've been wrong!"

    Shaking his head,  Mosiah urged  his horse forward  until he  rode
next to the catalyst.

    "Excuse me for interrupting your thoughts, Father," the young  man
said hesitantly, "but would-would you mind if I kept you company?"

    Saryon looked up  fearfully, his  face strained  and tense.  Then,
seeing only the young man, he appeared to relax. "No, I'd like it very
much, in fact."

    "You-you weren't praying or anything like that, were you, Father?"
Mosiah asked in some confusion. "I can leave, if you-"

    "No, I wasn't praying," Saryon said  with a wan smile. "I  haven't
done much praying lately," he added in a low voice, glancing about the
wilderness with  a shiver.  "I'm  used to  finding  the Almin  in  the
corridors of the Font. Not out here. I don't think He lives out here."

    Mosiah didn't  understand but,  seeing a  chance for  an  opening,
remarked, "My  father talks  like that  sometimes. He  says the  Almin
dines with the  rich and throws  scraps to the  poor. He doesn't  care
about us,  so we  must get  through this  life on  our own  honor  and
integrity. When  we die,  that's  the most  important thing  we  leave
behind."

    "Jacobias is  a very  wise man,"  Saryon said,  looking at  Mosiah
intently. "I know him. You are Mosiah, aren't you?"

    "Yes." The young man flushed. "I  know you know him. That's why  I
came-That is, I didn't know or I would have come sooner-I mean, Simkin
just now told me-"

    "I understand." Saryon nodded gravely. "I should have come to  see
you. I have messages from your  parents, but... I haven't been  well."
It was now the  catalyst's turn to  flush uncomfortably. Grimacing  in
pain, he shifted in his saddle, his gaze going to the figure of  Joram
disappearing among the trees.

    "My parents..." nudged Mosiah, after several moments of silence.

    "Oh, yes, I'm sorry,"  Saryon roused himself.  "They are well  and
send their love. They miss you very much," the catalyst said, seeing a
look of hunger and  longing sweep across the  young man's face.  "Your
mother gave me a kiss  for you, but I don't  suppose I need pass  that
along personally."

    "No, that's  all  right.  Thank  you,  Father,"  Mosiah  murmured,
blushing. "Did-did they say anything else? My father..."

    Glancing at the young man, Saryon's face grew grave and he did not
immediately reply, Mosiah  saw the  look and  understood, "That's  it,
isn't it," he said bitterly. "I'm in for a lecture."

    "Not a lecture," Saryon answered, smiling. "He said only that he'd
heard some things about these people  that he didn't like to hear.  He
hoped the  rumors weren't  true  but, if  they  were, that  you  would
remember what you  were brought up  to believe, and  that he and  your
mother loved you, and that you were in their thoughts."

    Looking at  the young  man, Saryon  saw crimson  stain the  smooth
cheeks, where there  was just the  faintest growth of  beard. But  the
shame-if that's what it had been-was gone almost immediately, replaced
by anger. "What he's heard is wrong."

    "What about this raid?"

    "These people are good people." Mosiah glared at Saryon defiantly.
"All they want is  to have the  same chance at  life others have.  All
right," he said quickly  when it seemed Saryon  would speak, "maybe  I
don't like some of what they do,  maybe I don't think it's right.  But
we have a right to survive."

    "By doing this? By robbing others? Andon tells me-"

    Mosiah made an impatient gesture. "Andon is an old man-"

    "He  tells  me   that  before   the  coming   of  Blachloch,   the
Technologists were able to provide for themselves," Saryon  continued.
"They farmed the land, using tools instead of magic."

    "We don't have time  now. We're working too  hard. We have to  eat
this winter!" Mosiah retorted angrily.

    "So do the people we're robbing."

    "We don't take much. Joram said so. We leave them plenty-"

    "Not this  year. This  year you  have me,  a catalyst.  This  year
Blachloch can use  me to enhance  his powers. Have  you ever seen  the
magic a warlock can summon?"

    "Then, why are you here?"  Mosiah asked abruptly, turning to  look
at Saryon, his face grim.  "Why did you run  to the Outland if  you're
full of such righteous notions?"

    "You know," replied the catalyst in  a low voice. "I heard  Simkin
tell you."

    Mosiah shook his  head. "Simkin  can't tell  you the  time of  day
without lying," he said scornfully.  "If you mean that nonsense  about
you coming for Joram-"

    "It isn't nonsense."

    Mosiah blinked, staring.  Saryon's face, though  pale and  haggard
with weariness, was composed. "What?" he repeated, not certain he  had
heard correctly.

    "It isn't nonsense," the catalyst said.  "I was sent here to  take
Joram back for justice."

    "But... Why?  Why are  you telling  me this?"  Mosiah demanded  in
confusion. "Do you want something from me, is that it? Do you want  me
to help you? Because I won't! Not Joram! He's my-"

    "No, of course not," Saryon  interrupted, shaking his head with  a
sad smile. "I don't want anything from  you. What I do about Joram,  I
must do  alone." Sighing,  he rubbed  his eyes  wearily. "I  told  you
because I promised your  father I would  speak to you  if I found  you
involved in this..." He waved his hand.

    The two rode together in silence through the dreary rain. Faintly,
behind them, above the jingle  of the harness and plodding  hoofbeats,
Mosiah heard Simkin's raucous laughter.

    "You could have  preached me  your sermon without  telling me  the
truth about yourself. Father. I  didn't believe Simkin anyway. No  one
ever does," Mosiah muttered, his hand twisting the reins, his eyes  on
the horse's tangled  mane. "I don't  know what you  mean about  taking
Joram in for justice. I don't  see how you could," he added,  glancing
at the catalyst with  contempt. "I'll warn Joram,  of course. I  still
don't understand why you  told me. You must  have realized this  would
make us enemies, you and me."

    "Yes, and I am sorry,"  Saryon answered, hunching deeper into  his
soggy cloak. "But I was afraid you wouldn't have paid attention to  me
otherwise. My 'sermon' wouldn't have had much impact if you thought  I
was talking out  one side  of my  mouth as  the saying  goes. Now,  at
least, I hope you will think about what I have told you."

    Mosiah did not answer, but continued to stare down at the  horse's
mane. His expression  hardened; the  hand twisting  the reins  gripped
them firmly. "Your conscience  can feel eased  now," he said,  raising
his head.  "You've done  your  duty to  my  father. But,  speaking  of
conscience, I don't see you hesitate  to obey Blachloch when he  tells
you to  grant him  Life. Or  perhaps you're  thinking of  disobeying,"
Mosiah said with a sneer, recalling the punishment at which Joram  had
hinted. Expecting the weak-appearing catalyst to cower and cringe, the
young man was startled to see him meet his gaze with quiet dignity.

    "That is my  shame," Saryon  answered steadily, "and  I must  deal
with it as you must deal with yours."

    "I  have  no  need  to  deal-"  began  Mosiah  angrily,  but   was
interrupted by Simkin's lilting voice, rising above the sound of  rain
and hooves.

    "Mosiah, Mosiah! Where are you?"

    Irritably, the  young man  turned around  in the  saddle,  looking
behind him  and waving  his hand.  "I'll  be there  in a  moment,"  he
shouted. Then he turned back to the catalyst. "One last thing I  don't
understand, Father. Why did you tell Simkin about Joram? Preaching him
a sermon, too?"

    "I didn't  tell Simkin,"  Saryon said.  Awkwardly kicking  at  his
horse with his big, ungainly feet, the weary catalyst urged the animal
forward. "You better go, they're calling for you. Good-bye, Mosiah.  I
hope we can talk again,"

    "Didn't tell him! Then how-"

    But Saryon shook his head. Pulling his hood low over his eyes,  he
rode on, leaving Mosiah to stare after him in confusion.

    "You're too gullible."

    "You weren't there,"  Mosiah muttered. '"You  didn't see him,  the
look on his  face. He's telling  the truth.  Oh, I know  how you  feel
about that"-seeing the bitter half-smile in Joram's dark eyes-"but you
have to admit that Simkin did tell  us the catalyst was here for  you.
And if the catalyst claims he didn't tell Simkin, then how-"

    "What does it matter?" Joram snapped impatiently, staring  moodily
into the small fire they had built to dry their clothes. The group had
found shelter for the  night in a huge  cave they'd discovered in  the
hillside near the  river. Since  it was  rare to  find a  cave in  the
Outland unoccupied, Blachloch had  entered it cautiously, keeping  his
catalyst with him. Upon investigation,  it proved empty, however,  and
the warlock decided it  was a safe  place in which  to stay. The  only
drawback was an atrocious smell coming from a pile of refuse in a dark
corner; refuse no one wanted to  examine too closely. Though they  had
burned it, the smell lingered on. Blachloch said the cave had probably
been inhabited by trolls.

    "Of course it doesn't  matter to you  about the catalyst,"  Mosiah
said bitterly, starting to get to  his feet, "Nothing ever matters  to
you..."

    Reaching out, Joram  gripped his  friend's hand.  "I'm sorry,"  he
said in a  tight voice,  the words  coming with  difficulty, "I  thank
you... for the  warning," The  half-smile twisted his  lips. "I  don't
consider one middle-aged catalyst much of a threat, but I'll be on  my
guard. As for Simkin"-he shrugged-"ask him how he found out."

    "But you can't  believe that fool!"  Mosiah said in  exasperation,
sitting back down.

    "Fool? Did  I  hear  someone  taking my  name  in  vain?"  came  a
dulcet-toned voice from the darkness.

    Sighing in  disgust, Mosiah  winced  and shaded  his eyes  as  the
gaudily clad figure stepped into the firelight.

    "What, dear boy,  don't you like  this?" Simkin inquired,  raising
his arms to show off his new robes to their most garish advantage.  "I
was so bored, wearing that drab  ranger garb, that I decided a  change
was in order, as  the Duchess D'Longeville said  when she married  her
fourth husband. Or  was it her  fifth? Not that  it matters. He'll  be
dead like the  others before  long. Never  take tea  with the  Duchess
D'Longeville. Or, if you do, make  certain she doesn't serve you  from
the same pot that she serves her husband. Don't you like this shade of
red? I call it Smashed Vermilion. What's the matter, Mosiah? You  look
in a worse humor than our friend the Dark One today."

    "Nothing," Mosiah mumbled,  twisting to  his feet to  peer into  a
crude iron pot perched precariously in a bed of hot coals.

    "Smells like it's  burning on  the bottom,"  said Simkin,  bending
down and sniffing. "I say, why  don't you ask that jolly old  catalyst
for some Life? Use our magic,  like everyone else now that he's  here.
Am I invited for dinner?"

    "No." Lifting  a  stick, and  ignoring  the suggestion  about  the
catalyst, Mosiah began to stir the bubbling contents of the pot.

    "Ah," said Simkin sitting down, "thanks. Now, what are we in  such
a pet  over? I  know! You  rode with  Father Skinhead  today. He  have
anything interesting to say?"

    "Shhh," Mosiah  cautioned, gesturing  to where  Saryon was  seated
alone, trying without  much success  to build  a fire.  "Why ask?  You
probably know more about what we discussed than either of us."

    "Probably I do," Simkin said gaily.  "Look at the poor chap,  he's
freezing to death. Old fellow like that shouldn't be roaming about  in
the wilderness. I'll invite him over to share our stew." The young man
looked around at his friends. "Shall I? I believe I will. Don't scowl,
Joram. You really should meet him.  After all, he's here to  apprehend
you. I say, Catalyst!"

    Simkin's voice echoed in the  cave. Saryon started and turned,  as
did nearly everyone else in the cavern.

    Mosiah reached out and  tugged at Simkin's  sleeve. "Stop it,  you
fool!"

    But Simkin was calling  out once again and  waving, his red  robes
flaming in the firelight. "Over  here, Catalyst. Look, we've got  this
nice squirrel stew..."

    Many of  the men  were  glancing at  them, snickering  and  making
muttered comments. Even Blachloch raised his hooded head from the game
of cards he was playing with some of his men, regarding the group with
a cold, impassionate stare. Slowly, Saryon rose to his feet, his  face
flushed, and walked toward them, obviously hoping to shut Simkin up.

    "Damn!" groaned Mosiah, leaning close to Joram. "Let's go. I'm not
hungry anymore..."

    "No, wait. I want to meet  him," Joram said softly, his dark  eyes
on the catalyst.

    "I'll escort you, Father," Simkin  cried, leaping to his feet  and
running over  to  the  catalyst. Bowing  gracefully,  he  grabbed  the
embarrassed man by  the hand  and led him  to the  fire, performing  a
quadrille on the way. "Shall we  dance, Father? One, two, three,  hop.
One, two, three, hop..."

    There was  laughter.  Everyone  in  the  cave  was  watching  now,
grateful for the diversion. The exception was Blachloch, who  returned
to his card game.

    "Not a dancer, Father? Probably frowned upon, isn't it."

    Saryon was trying, unsuccessfully, to shake Simkin loose.

    But Simkin  was  having far  too  good a  time.  "Undoubtedly  His
Tubbiness just prohibits it  because he's jealous.  I mean, with  him,
'one, two, three, hop' would be  closer to 'one, two, three,  bouncey,
bouncey, bouncey'." Puffing his cheeks  and throwing out his  stomach,
Simkin did a credible impression of  the Bishop that brought roars  of
laughter and scattered applause.

    "Thank you, thank you."  Placing his hand  over his heart,  Simkin
bowed. Then, with  a flourish  of orange  silk, he  led the  red-faced
catalyst to the fire. "Here you are, Father," he said, bustling  about
and dragging over a  rotted log. "Wait! Don't  sit down yet. I'll  bet
you suffer from piles. Curse  of the middle-aged. My grandfather  died
of them, you know. Yes," he continued mournfully as he tapped the  log
once with his hand  arid transformed it into  a velvet cushion,  "poor
old gentleman went for nine years without sitting down. Then he  tried
it once, and bam-keeled right over. Blood rushed to his-"

    "Please,  Father,  won't  you   be  seated?"  Mosiah   interrupted
hurriedly. "I-I  don't believe  you  have met  Joram. Joram,  this  is
F-father-"

    Mosiah stammered  himself into  confused  silence as  Joram  gazed
steadily at the catalyst without speaking.

    Sitting down awkwardly on the  cushion, Saryon tried to give  some
polite greeting to  the young  man, but the  look of  cool disdain  in
Joram's brown eyes sucked the air out  of his body and the words  from
his mind. Only Simkin was at ease. Hunching down on a rock, he  rested
his arms on his bent knees, leaned his bearded chin on his hands,  and
smiled on all three mischievously.

    "I'll bet the  squirrel's cooked  by now," he  said, reaching  out
suddenly to give the catalyst a playful shove with his hand. "Wouldn't
you say so, Father? Or maybe it's your goose we've cooked?"

    His face flushing so  that it appeared  fevered, Saryon looked  as
though he could cheerfully  sink through the  floor. Casting Simkin  a
vicious glance, Mosiah moved hastily over to the iron pot. He  started
to lift it by the handle, when Joram caught hold of his arm.

    "It will be hot," he said.  A stick materialized in Joram's  hand.
Sliding it through the handle, he lifted the pot from the blaze.  "The
heat from the flame heats not only the pot but the handle itself."

    "You and  your damn  technology,"  muttered Mosiah,  sitting  back
down.

    "I will be happy  to open a  conduit to you  and provide you  with
Life-" Saryon began, then his eyes met Joram's.

    "That wouldn't be of much use to me now, would it, Father?"  Joram
said evenly, his heavy brows slashing a dark line across his forehead.
"I'm Dead. Or didn't you know?"

    "I knew," said Saryon quietly. The  flush was gone from his  face,
leaving it pale and composed. No  one was watching them now. The  rest
of the men in  the cavern, seeing that  the show was apparently  over,
had gone back to  their own concerns.  "I will not lie  to you. I  was
sent to bring you to justice. You are a murderer-"

    "And one of the walking Dead," Joram snapped bitterly, setting the
stewpot down on the ground with a thud.

    "I say, careful there," Simkin remonstrated, leaning over  hastily
to rescue the pot. Lifting the  spoon, he began to ladle out  portions
of the grayish, lumpish mixture into rough-hewn wooden bowls. "Forgive
the use of the tools, Father, but-"

    "Are you?" asked Saryon,  gazing steadily at  Joram. "I have  been
watching you. I have seen you  use the magic. That stick you  produced
from thin air, for example..."

    To Saryon's amazement, Joram's dark  eyes flashed, but it was  not
with anger.  It  was with  fear.  Puzzled, his  words  forgotten,  the
catalyst stared at him.  The look was gone  in an instant, covered  by
the hard, stone facade. But it had been there, Saryon was certain.

    Taking a dish from Simkin, Joram sat down upon the stone floor and
began to eat,  using the  tool to shovel  food into  his mouth,  never
raising his eyes  from his dish.  Accepting his dish,  Mosiah did  the
same, manipulating the  unfamiliar spoon awkwardly.  Simkin offered  a
dish to the catalyst, who took it and a spoon. But Saryon did not eat,
he was still looking at Joram.

    "I have been thinking," he said to the scowling young man.  "Since
no records exist of  your Testing, it is  possible that Father  Tolban
might have, in the  excitement of the moment,  made a mistake in  your
case. Return with me of your own accord and let the case be  examined.
There were  extenuating circumstances  involved  in the  murder,  I've
heard. Your mother-"

    "Do not speak of my mother. Let us talk of my father, instead. Did
you  know  him,  Catalyst?"  Joram  asked  coldly.  "Were  you  there,
watching, when they turned his body to stone?"

    Saryon had picked up his bowl, but now he set it down with shaking
hands.

    "I  say,  Mosiah,"  remarked  Simkin,  chewing  vigorously,  "this
squirrel didn't happen to stagger in here  and die of old age in  your
arms, did it,  dear boy?  If so,  you should  have given  it a  decent
burial. I've been chewing on this piece for ten minutes-"

    "No, no...  I  wasn't  present during  your  father's  execution,"
replied Saryon in a low voice, his  eyes on the stone floor. "I was  a
Deacon, then. Only the higher-ranking of my Order-"

    "Got to see the show?" Joram sneered.

    "Water! I need water!" Simkin gestured, and a water-skin,  hanging
in a cool  part of  the cavern,  floated over  to them.  "I must  have
something to wash down this elderly  party." Taking a drink, he  wiped
his mouth with the bit of orange silk, then gave a prodigious yawn. "I
say, I'm frightfully bored with this conversation. Let's play  tarok."
Reaching into  the air,  he produced  a pack  of colorful,  gilt-edged
cards.

    "Where did  you get  a deck?"  Mosiah demanded,  thankful for  the
interruption, "Wait a minute, those aren't Blachloch's, are they?"

    "Of course not."  Simkin looked  hurt. "He's playing  over in  the
corner, didn't you notice? As for this"-he spread the cards out on the
ground with an expert flick of his hand-"I picked it up at court. This
is the newest deck. The artisans did a superb job. The court cards are
drawn to look  like everyone  in the Royal  House of  Merilon. It  was
quite the rage,  I assure you.  Overly flattering to  the Empress,  of
course. She doesn't look  nearly this good  now, especially up  close.
But the artisans have no choice  in the matter, I suppose. Notice  the
lovely azure  color to  the sky  around the  Sun card?  Crushed  lapis
lazuli. No, truly, I  assure you. And  see the Kings?  Each suit is  a
different Emperor  of one  of the  realms. King  of Swords-Emperor  of
Merilon. King of  Staves is  Zith-el. King  of Cups  is the  notorious
lover, Emperor of Balzab. A perfect likeness, and the King of Coins is
that money-grubber Sharakan-"

    "We'll play,  won't  we,  Joram?"  Mosiah  interrupted  hurriedly,
seeing Simkin about to proceed to the Queens. "What about you, Father?
Or Is playing tarok against your vows or something?"

    "Only three  players,"  Simkin  said,  shuffling  the  deck.  "The
catalyst will have to wait his turn."

    "Thank you,"  said  Saryon. Gathering  his  robes around  him,  he
started to rise,  leaving his  untouched stew  on the  floor. "We  are
permitted to play but I would not break up your game. Perhaps  another
time..."

    "Go ahead, Catalyst." Shoving his plate away, Joram stood up,  his
face dark and sullen, a wild, strange look in his eyes. "I don't  want
to play. You can have my place."

    "Don't, Joram!" Mosiah said in low tones. A note of anxiety in his
voice, he caught hold of Joram's muscular arm.

    "See here," said Simkin cheerfully, cutting the deck and  stacking
it back with a swift  gesture of his hand.  "We won't play if  Joram's
going to go off  into one of  his sulking fits.  Look, I'll tell  your
fortunes. Sit  back  down,  Catalyst.  I  think  you  will  find  this
interesting. You first, Joram."

    Anciently, the Diviners had used the tarot deck to enable them  to
see into  the future.  Brought from  the Dark  World, the  cards  were
originally cherished as a sacred artifact. The Diviners alone, it  was
said, knew how to translate the  complex images painted on the  cards.
But the Diviners were no more,  having perished in the Iron Wars.  The
cards still existed, preserved  for their quaint  beauty, and after  a
time someone recalled that they had once been used in an ancient  game
known as tarok. The game caught on, particularly among the members  of
the noble houses. The art of  fortune-telling did not die out  either,
but dwindled (with the encouragement of the catalysts) into a harmless
pastime suitable for entertainment at parties.

    "Come, Joram. I'm quite  skilled at this,  you know," said  Simkin
persuasively, tugging at Joram's sleeve until the young man sat  down.
Even Saryon hesitated,  regarding the cards  with the fascination  all
feel when  they try  to lift  the  veil that  hides the  future.  "The
Empress simply dotes on me. Now, Joram, using your left hand-the  hand
closest to your heart-choose three cards. Past, present, future.  This
is your past."

    Simkin turned up the first card. A figure robed in black riding  a
pale horse stared out at them with the grinning face of a skull.

    "Death," said Simkin softly.

    Despite himself, Saryon  could not  repress a  shiver. He  glanced
quickly at the  young man,  but Joram was  staring at  the cards  with
nothing but a half-smile upon his lips, a smile that might have been a
sneer.

    The second card pictured a man in royal robes, seated on a throne.

    "The King of Swords. Oh, ho!" Simkin said, laughing. "Maybe you're
destined to  wrest  control  from Blachloch,  Joram.  Emperor  of  the
Sorcerers!"

    "Hush! Don't even  joke about  that!" Mosiah said  with a  nervous
glance into  the corner  of the  cavern where  Blachloch and  his  men
played their own game.

    "I'm not  joking," Simkin  said in  aggrieved tones.  "I'm  really
quite good at this. The Duke of Osborne said-"

    "Turn over the  third card,"  Joram muttered.  "So we  can get  to
bed."

    Obediently, Simkin  turned over  the  card. At  the sight  of  it,
Joram's eyes flickered with amusement.

    "Two cards exactly alike! I might have known you'd have a  crooked
deck," Mosiah said in disgust, though  Saryon noted the relief in  the
young man's voice  as he  saw the wild  look fade  from Joram's  face.
"Fortune-telling! Turn over  the Fool card  for yourself, Simkin,  and
I'd believe it.  Come on, Joram.  Good night, Father."  The two  left,
heading for their bedrolls.

    "Good night," Saryon  said absently. His  attention was caught  by
Simkin, who was staring at the cards in bewilderment.

    "That's impossible," Simkin said, frowning. "I'm certain that  the
last time I looked at this deck, it was perfectly normal. I recall  it
quite well. I told the Marquis de  Lucien that he was going to meet  a
tall, dark stranger. He did, too.  The Duuk-tsarith picked him up  the
next day. Mmm, very odd. Oh, welt." Shrugging again, he draped his bit
of orange silk over  the cards and, tapping  them once on top,  caused
them to disappear. "I say, are you going to eat your stew, Bald One?"

    "What? Oh... no," Saryon answered, shaking his head. "Go ahead."

    "I hate to see it  go to waste, though I  do wish Mosiah had  more
respect for the aged." Simkin said,  picking up the bowl and  spooning
in a mouthful of squirrel. Lying back on the velvet cushion, he  began
to chew resignedly.

    Saryon did not reply. Walking away, the catalyst went to a  corner
of the cavern  that was in  relative shadow. Wrapping  himself in  his
robes and his blanket, he lay down on the cold stone and tried to  get
as comfortable as possible. But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the
cards spread out on the stone floor.

    The third  card  had been  Death  again; this  time,  though,  the
grinning figure had been reversed.

    2

    Grant Me Life...

    The rain and the journey  continued, as did Saryon's misery.  Only
now, it was misery tempered with growing fear as they drew nearer  and
nearer their goal-the small  Field Magi settlement  of Dunam north  of
the border of the Outland, about one hundred miles from the sea coast.
At least once a  day Blachloch called upon  the catalyst to grant  him
Life; never much, just  sufficient for defensive  purposes or to  give
his men the magical power to rise  above the tops of the trees on  the
wings of the air to scout the trail ahead.

    But, although minor  in nature,  Saryon knew these  for what  they
were-conditioning, the conditioning  of a slave  to obey his  master's
voice. Each command was always a little more difficult, each  required
more expenditure of energy on the catalyst's part, each drained him  a
little more every day. And always  the cold, impassionate eyes of  the
warlock stared at him from the shadows of the black hood, watching him
for the least sign of weakness, of hesitation or resistance.

    What Blachloch would have done had his slave rebelled, Saryon  did
not know. Not once  during the entire  month-long journey through  the
Outland did the catalyst ever  see the warlock mistreat, threaten,  or
even speak harshly to anyone. The  Duuk-tsarith had no need to  resort
to such measures. The warlock's presence alone commanded respect,  his
eyes turned toward anyone filled them with a vague feeling of  terror.
To be included as  one of the threesome  of Blachloch's nightly  tarok
games-the  warlock's  only  indulgence  and   one  to  which  he   was
passionately addicted-took either great fortitude or large  quantities
of fiery spirits. Some simply could  not take playing cards for  hours
in the gaze of those blue,  expressionless eyes. Saryon saw men  slink
into the shadows when evening came  and Blachloch drew forth his  pack
of cards.

    Saryon's guilt and  misery deepened. Day  after day, the  catalyst
rode through the rain,  his head bowed almost  as low as his  horse's.
Nothing occurred to mar the drudgery  of the ride. Though the  bandits
saw centaur tracks,  they were not  attacked. Centaur prefer  catching
one or two  lone humans  and will think  twice about  striking such  a
large, well-equipped group. Once Saryon thought he caught a glimpse of
a  giant  peering  at   them  from  above   the  treetops,  the   huge
shaggy-haired head seemingly at  variance with the popping,  childlike
eyes and the  gaping mouth that  grinned in the  delight at this  tiny
parade through his homeland. Before the catalyst could speak or  shout
an alarm, the figure was gone.  Saryon might have doubted his  senses,
but he felt  the ground tremble  beneath the thuds  of gigantic  feet.
Later, he  was glad  he had  not mentioned  it, listening  to some  of
Blachloch's men tell stories about the sport they had when they caught
one of these big, gentle, dim-witted creatures.

    The only sips of  pleasure in the catalyst's  bitter cup were  the
few moments  he spent  each day  with Mosiah.  The young  man took  to
riding with Saryon  for short  spells, most  of the  time by  himself,
occasionally (when Mosiah couldn't get rid of him) with Simkin. Joram,
of course, never joined them, although Saryon always noticed the young
man riding a  short distance  behind them, within  hearing range.  But
when the catalyst started to mention this to Mosiah, he only  received
a quick shake of the head, a swift backward glance, and the  whispered
words "Don't pay any attention to him" in return.

    The  two  were  an   unlikely  pair-the  tall,   stoop-shouldered,
middle-aged priest  and the  fair-haired, handsome  youth. Their  talk
ranged over a wide  variety of subjects,  nearly always starting  with
the small doings of the people in Mosiah's village, which the homesick
youth never tired of  discussing. After that,  however, it ranged  far
afield, Saryon finding himself talking  about his studies, about  life
in court  and  the  city  of  Merilon.  It  was  during  these  times,
particularly when he talked about  Merilon or when he was  discoursing
on mathematics (his favorite topic), that he saw, out of the corner of
his eye, Joram edging his horse nearer.

    "Tell me, Father"-Mosiah's voice carried clearly over the thudding
of the horses'  hooves and the  dripping of the  water from the  trees
beneath  which  they  rode-"when  Simkin  talks  about  the  court  at
Merilon... You know, when  he mentions those  Dukes and Duchesses  and
Earls and all  that, is he...  well... making these  people up? Or  do
they really exist?"

    "Is he lying?" Joram muttered to  himself as he rode behind  them,
that strange inner  smile lighting  his eyes. "Of  course he's  lying.
Still trying to catch the wily Simkin, are you, Mosiah? Well, give up.
Better people than you have tried, my friend."

    "I really  can't  say,"  Joram  heard  the  catalyst  reply  in  a
perplexed tone. "You  see, I wasn't  at court much  myself and...  I'm
terrible at names. Some of them  he mentions do sound familiar, yet  I
can't ever  seem  to  call  them to  mind.  I  suppose  it's  entirely
possible..."

    "See there?"  Joram said  to  Mosiah's back.  He often  made  such
comments during the course of  the conversation. But they were  always
made to himself, always unheard by the principals involved. For  Joram
never joined  them, and  if  either glanced  back, he  always  feigned
looking at his surroundings to the exclusion of all else.

    But  he  was  listening,  listening  carefully  and  with  intense
interest. A change  had come  over Joram in  the months  he had  spent
living among the Sorcerers of Technology. Sick and exhausted upon  his
arrival, it had  been easy for  the young  man to fall  into his  old,
accustomed ways of leaving people severely alone and expecting them to
leave him alone. But he discovered after long weeks of this that being
left alone was...  lonely, Worse than  that, he realized  that if  his
self-imposed solitude continued,  he would  soon end up  as insane  as
poor Anja.

    Fortunately, Simkin  had returned  at this  time from  one of  his
frequent  and  mysterious  disappearances.  Acting  some  say  upon  a
suggestion  of  Blachloch's,  Simkin  appeared  on  Joram's  doorstep,
introduced himself, and  moved in  before the morose  young man  could
utter a  word.  Joram,  intrigued  and amused  by  the  older  youth's
conversation, allowed  Simkin to  stay,  Simkin, in  turn,  introduced
Joram to the world.

    "You have a gift, dear boy," said Simkin banteringly to Joram  one
night. "Don't  scowl. Your  face  will freeze  like that  someday  and
you'll spend all  of your  life frightening dogs  and small  children.
Now, about this gift, I'm serious. I've seen it at court. Your  mother
was Albanara, right? They're born with this ability, charisma,  charm,
whatever you want to call it. Now,  of course, you have all the  charm
of a pile of rocks, but stay with me and you'll learn. Why should  you
bother? you ask. The best reason in the world. Because, dear boy,  you
can make people do anything you want..."

    Venturing out into his small  world, Joram found, to his  surprise
and pleasure,  that what  Simkin said  was true.  Perhaps it  was  the
"noble blood," the hereditary  abilities of the  Albanara that ran  in
his veins,  perhaps it  was nothing  more than  the fact  that he  was
educated.  Whatever  the  reason,  Joram  discovered  the  ability  to
manipulate people, to use  them and still keep  them at a  comfortable
distance from himself.

    The one person this  failed to work upon  was Mosiah. Although  he
had been extremely glad to see his longtime friend when the young  man
came into camp,  Joram resented Mosiah's  continued attempts to  break
apart the  carefully  crafted  stone exterior  of  his  being.  Simkin
entertained  Joram.  Mosiah  demanded  something  in  return  for  his
friendship.

    Back off, Joram often thought in exasperation. Back off and let me
breathe!

    Despite this, Joram was more truly content among these people than
he had once  thought possible. Although  he still had  to keep up  the
pretext of possessing  a certain amount  of magic, he  was able to  do
this easily with his sleight-of-hand  illusions. There were others  in
this camp who had failed the Testing, and he wasn't made to feel  like
a freak or an outcast.

    Through hard, physical  labor, he had  grown strong and  muscular.
Some of the  bitterness and  anger that  scarred his  face was  eased,
though the slashing black brows and the dark, brooding eyes made  many
uncomfortable in his presence. The  beautiful black, shining hair  was
generally unkempt and  tangled, there  being no  Anja to  comb it  for
Joram every night.  But he refused  to cut  it, wearing it  in a  long
thick braid that extended down his broad back, almost to his waist.

    He enjoyed  his work  in  the iron  forge,  as well.  Shaping  the
shapeless ore into useful tools and weapons gave him the  satisfaction
he imagined other men must feel when they summoned the magic. In fact,
Joram became fascinated  by Technology.  He spent  hours listening  to
Andon tell of the  legends of the ancient  days when the Sorcerers  of
the Ninth  Mystery  had  ruled  the  world  with  their  terrible  and
wonderful engines  and machines.  Through some  mysterious means,  the
young man was able to discover  the location of the hidden texts  that
had  been  written  after  the  Iron  Wars  by  those  who  fled   the
persecution. Intrigued with the wonders described, Joram fumed that so
much had been lost.

    "We could rule  the world again  if we had  such things!" he  told
Mosiah more than once, his  thoughts always turning to this  direction
in the feverish, talkative  state that followed  his black periods  of
melancholia. "A powder,  fine as  sand, that could  blast down  walls;
engines that hurled balls of molten fire-"

    "Death! "cried Mosiah, aghast. "That's what you are talking about,
Joram. Engines of Death. That is why the Technologists were banished."

    "Banished by whom? The catalysts!  Because they feared us!"  Joram
retorted. "As for death, people die  at the hands of the War  Masters,
the  DKarn-Duuk,   or,   worse,  they're   mutated,   changed   beyond
recognition. But just  think, Mosiah,  think what  we could  do if  we
combined magic and technology..."

    "Blachloch's thinking  of  it,"  Mosiah  muttered.  "There's  your
ruler, Joram. A renegade warlock."

    "Maybe..."  Joram   murmured   thoughtfully  with   that   strange
half-smile in his eyes. "Maybe not..."

    Joram had made  a discovery in  one of the  ancient books. It  was
this discovery that led him to work late nights in the forge with such
frustrating results. He lacked the key yet to complete  understanding.
That was why his  experiment had failed. But  now he thought he  might
have found it  in an unlikely  place-the catalyst. At  last he had  an
idea what those strange symbols were  in the text. They were  numbers.
The key was mathematics.

    But now Joram was  torn. He hated the  catalyst. With Saryon  came
the bitter memories-Anja's  stories, the stone  statue, the  knowledge
that he was  Dead, the knowledge  that he had  murdered. His  peaceful
life was shattered. Old dreams returned to plague him, the black moods
threatened once more to engulf him in their madness. When the catalyst
first arrived, he had thought more than once of ending the man's  life
as he had so easily ended another's. Often he found himself  standing,
a large, smooth stone in his  hand, remembering how easy it had  been.
He recalled clearly  how it had  felt to  hurl the stone,  how it  had
sounded when it struck the man's head.

    But he  did not  kill  the catalyst.  The  reason being,  he  told
himself, that he discovered the man knew mathematics. A plan began  to
take shape within  Joram, becoming  as sharp  and strong  as the  iron
blades he hammered.

    The catalyst would be  of use to him.  Joram smiled inwardly.  The
catalyst would grant  him Life-of a  sort. I'll have  to wait and  see
what type of man he is, Joram said to himself. Weak and ignorant, like
Tolban, or does he have  something more in him?  One thing was in  the
catalyst's favor-the man had, surprisingly, been honest with him.  Not
that Joram trusted him. The young man almost laughed at the absurdity.
No, he  did not  trust the  catalyst, but  he allowed  him a  grudging
respect.

    The true  test would  come  soon. Joram  was waiting,  along  with
nearly everyone else in the group of bandits, to see how Saryon  would
react when Blachloch ordered him to help rob the villagers.

    "Do you think what we're doing  is right?" Mosiah asked one  night
as they lay on a pile of dead, wet leaves beneath a tree. Even wrapped
in their blankets, it seemed impossible to keep warm.

    "What's right?"  muttered  Joram,  trying  unsuccessfully  to  get
comfortable.

    "Taking food... from, these people."

    "So you've been talking to that pious old man again?" Joram asked,
sneering.

    "It's not  that,"  Mosiah returned.  Propping  himself up  on  one
elbow, he turned to face his friend, who was nothing more than a black
shapeless form in the starless, moonless darkness. "I've been thinking
about it myself.  These people  are like  us, Joram.  They're like  my
father and  mother  and  your  mother." He  ignored  a  sudden  angry,
rustling sound. "You remember how  hard winters were. What if  bandits
had stolen from us?"

    "It would have been  our tough luck, just  like it'll be  theirs,"
Joram said coldly. "It's us or them. We have to have food."

    "We could trade for it..."

    "What? Arrowtips?  Daggers? Spearheads?  The  tools of  the  Ninth
Mystery? Do you think  those farmers would  barter with Sorcerers  who
have sold their souls  to the Powers of  Darkness? Hah! They'd  sooner
die than feed us."

    The conversation ended, Joram rolling  over and refusing to  talk,
Mosiah hearing those last, disturbing words echo in his head.

    They'd sooner die...

    3

    The Raid A strong, chill wind  blowing from the ocean swept  apart
the storm clouds, blowing  them back southward  into the Outland.  The
rain stopped  and the  sun appeared,  its meager  autumn warmth  doing
little, however, to counter the cutting  cold of the wind through  wet
clothing. The men's spirits  did not rise. With  the cessation of  the
rain, Blachloch pushed them forward rapidly, sometimes riding into the
evening hours if  the night  was clear. The  thick stands  of oak  and
walnut trees of the  Outland gave way to  pines. The riders grew  more
cautious, for  they  were  nearing the  borders  of  civilized  lands.
Stopping at last on the  banks of the river,  they made camp and  then
spent three days cutting trees and lashing logs together to form crude
flatboats.

    The catalyst was kept busy giving  Life to the men to enable  them
to complete the work swiftly. He did as he was told, though he watched
the building of the boats with increasing despondency. In his mind, he
could already  see them  loaded with  booty, ready  to be  transported
upriver, back to the settlement.

    At last the boats were finished, and there came a night without  a
moon. The wind blew stronger and fiercer, buffeting Blachloch's men as
they  mounted  their  horses.  Riding  swiftly,  their  black   cloaks
billowing in the gusts like the sails of a ghostly armada, the bandits
swept down upon the village of Dunam, intending to strike them in  the
evening when, worn out from their long labors in the fields, the  magi
were settling down to rest.

    On the outskirts of  the village, Blachloch  reined in his  horse,
calling a halt. Open  land stretched out  before them, fields  already
harvested, lying fallow. Stacked at the far end were the disks used by
the Ariels to transport the fruits  of the harvest to the  landowner's
granaries. Seeing these, the men grinned  at each other. They were  in
time.

    The wind blew chill from the  ocean waters to the north,  carrying
with it, even at that distance,  a faint, salty tang. Facing into  the
biting wind, the horses  shook their heads,  setting the harnesses  to
jingling, and causing a few of the more skittish to shift nervously in
place. Their riders, no more comfortable than their mounts, muffled up
to the eyebrows in thick cloaks still damp from the soaking ride,  sat
stolidly in  a line  awaiting the  orders that  would send  them  into
action.

    Sitting apart from them, alone, hunched in his green cloak, Saryon
shivered from fear and the cold,  the credo of his upbringing  ringing
in his ears, its irony twisting in his bowels.

    Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire.

    "Catalyst, to my side."

    The words were not heard so much as they penetrated Saryon's mind.
Gripping the reins in his shaking hand, the catalyst rode forward.

    "To obey is to live..."

    Where was the  Almin? Where was  his God at  this desperate  time?
Back in the  Font, probably, attending  Evening Prayers. Certainly  He
was not in this wild and windswept night, riding with bandits.

    "To live is to obey..."

    Riding forward, Saryon was dimly aware of a face turned to look at
him. His hood dragged  back, the young man  was barely visible in  the
bright starlight. But the catalyst recognized Mosiah, looking troubled
and distraught. The dark shrouded figure beside him would  undoubtedly
be Joram. Saryon  caught a glimpse  of the young  man's eyes behind  a
tangle  of  matted  hair,  staring   at  him  with  cool,   appraising
speculation. Muffled laughter came  from behind the  two along with  a
bright flash of color-Simkin.

    Seemingly of its own volition, Saryon's horse carried him past the
young men, past the  rows of waiting,  grim-faced Sorcerers and  their
nervous mounts up to  the front of the  line. Here Blachloch sat  upon
his steed-a thick-bodied charger.

    The moment  had  come. Half-turning  in  the saddle,  the  warlock
looked  at  Saryon.  Blachloch  did  not  speak,  his  face   remained
impassive, expressionless, but  the catalyst felt  courage drain  from
him as surely as if the warlock had slit his throat. Saryon bowed  his
head and, at that, Blachloch smiled for the first time.

    "I am glad we understand each other, Father. You have been trained
in the art of warfare?"

    "It was a long time ago," Saryon said in a low voice.

    "Yes, I  can imagine.  Do not  worry. This  will soon  be over,  I
think." Turning around,  Blachloch spoke  a few  words to  one of  his
guards, apparently going over last-minute instructions. Saryon did not
listen, he could not hear for the  wind and the blood pounding in  his
head.

    The warlock rode forward; a  gesture brought the catalyst to  ride
beside him.

    "The important thing to  remember, Catalyst," Blachloch  murmured,
"is to keep to my left and stand slightly behind me. Thus I can shield
you if  need be.  I want  to see  you out  of the  corner of  my  eye,
however, so  make  certain  to  keep  within  my  visual  range.  And,
Father"-Blachloch smiled again,  a smile that  sent a shudder  through
the catalyst-"I know that you have  the ability to drain Life as  well
as give  it. A  dangerous maneuver,  but  one not  unheard of  if  the
catalyst feels like avenging  himself upon his wizard.  Do not try  it
with me."

    There was no threat, the  words were spoken in an  expressionless,
even tone. But the last tiny flicker of hope within the catalyst died.
Not that it  had ever  burned very  brightly. Draining  the Life  from
Blachloch would leave Saryon at the  mercy of the Sorcerers, for  such
an action drains the catalyst as well. And, as Blachloch said, it  was
extremely dangerous. A  powerful wizard  could shut  off the  conduit,
then deal swift  retribution to  his attacker.  Still, it  had been  a
chance, and now it was gone.

    Had Bishop Vanya considered this? Had he known Saryon was going to
be forced into committing  these vile crimes?  Surely Vanya had  never
intended it to go this far! Even if he had lied to him, there must  be
some reason, some purpose...

    "Hail, strangers in the night," came a voice.

    Saryon started so that he  nearly fell from his saddle.  Blachloch
reined in his horse and the catalyst hastily did likewise, positioning
himself, as  the  warlock  had instructed,  to  Blachloch's  left  and
slightly behind.

    Glancing around, the catalyst saw that  while he had been lost  in
his dark thoughts, they had ridden into the village. Light shone  from
the windows of the shaped stone  homes where the Field Magi lived.  It
was a large settlement, Saryon noticed, larger than Walren. Hope  rose
again. Surely Blachloch  with his  small band  of thirty  or so  would
never dream of attacking a village  that must have at least a  hundred
magi.

    The door of one of the dwellings had opened and a man stood there,
outlined in firelight that glowed softly  behind him. He was tall  and
muscular, Saryon could see.  Undoubtedly the overseer,  it was he  who
had called out the greeting.

    "Catalyst," the man shouted. "We have visitors."

    The door to the stone dwelling next to his opened and another  man
stepped out-a catalyst by his green  robes. As he hurried to take  his
place beside the overseer, Saryon saw the catalyst's face reflected in
the light. He was young, probably no more than a Deacon. This must  be
his first assignment.

    The overseer peered into  the night, trying to  see who rode  into
his village at  this hour. He  was wary, cautious.  Blachloch had  not
spoken nor had he replied to the hail as was customary.

    We must look  like nothing more  than black windows  cut into  the
night, Saryon realized. Then he felt  a cold hand touch his wrist  and
he blenched, his stomach quaking.

    "Grant me Life, Catalyst."

    The words  were not  spoken,  they reverberated  through  Saryon's
head. Closing his eyes, he blotted  out the lights of the hovels,  the
puzzled, suspicious face of  the overseer, and the  tense face of  the
young catalyst. I could lie, he thought desperately. I could say I  am
too weak, too frightened to sense the magic...

    The cold  hand  tightened  its grip  painfully.  With  a  shudder,
feeling the magic rise from the ground, from the night, from the wind,
and flow through him, Saryon opened the conduit.

    The magic surged from him to Blachloch.

    "I said 'Hail, stranger. ' " The overseers voice grew gruff.  "Are
you lost? Where do you ride from and where are you bound?"

    "I ride  from  the  Outland,"  Blachloch said,  "and  this  is  my
destination."

    "The Outland?"  The overseer  folded his  arms across  his  chest.
"Then you can turn around and ride back to that god-cursed  territory.
We want  none of  your  kind around  here. Go  on,  get out  of  here.
Catalyst-"

    But the young Deacon was quick-thinking, opening a conduit to  the
overseer before he asked.

    By this  time the  sound  of talking  had roused  other  villagers
living nearby. Some looked out of windows, several of the men came  to
their doors, and a few stepped into the roadway.

    Sitting calmly on his steed, Blachloch might have been waiting for
this audience, for he smiled again, as if in gratification.

    "I said. Begone!" the overseer began, taking a step forward.

    Blachloch removed his hand from Saryon's arm, breaking the conduit
so swiftly  that the  catalyst gasped  as some  of the  magical  power
surged back through him.

    Pointing his hand at the  overseer, Blachloch whispered one  word.
The overseer began  to glow  with an  eerie aura  that surrounded  his
body, giving off a faint greenish glow-the magus was of the Mystery of
Earth. The aura grew brighter and  stronger, and by its light,  Saryon
saw the  overseer's face  contort in  astonishment, then  fear, as  he
realized what was happening to him.  The light was his own magic,  his
own Life. When the glow died, the man's body slumped to the ground.

    Saryon's throat constricted, he could not breathe. All his life he
had heard of the terrible power of Nullmagic, but he had never seen it
used. The overseer was not  dead, but he might  as well have been.  He
lay on his doorstoop,  more helpless than a  newborn child. Until  the
spell was reversed or until  such time as he  might train his body  to
live without the magic, he would be able to do nothing but stare about
him in impotent fury, his arms and legs twitching feebly.

    Several of the magi were  running toward their overseer,  shouting
in alarm. Kneeling beside the fallen man, the young Deacon raised  his
head to look  at Blachloch. Saryon  saw the catalyst's  eyes widen  in
fear, his lips open in a plea, a protest, a prayer...

    Blachloch moved his hand again,  spoke again. This time there  was
no light, no sound. The spell was swift and efficient. Compressed  air
slammed into the young catalyst like an ocean wave, surging over  him,
smashing his body up against the stone wall of the overseer's house.

    The shouts  of  alarm  became  anger  and  outrage.  Sickened  and
horrified, Saryon swayed in the saddle, the lights of the village swam
about him, the shadows leaped and  danced in his dazed vision. He  saw
Blachloch raise  his  hand, saw  it  burn  with flame  and  heard  the
answering sounds of horses' hooves  thudding behind him. The band  was
riding to the  attack. He had  the vague impression  that some of  the
Field Magi appeared  ready to  fight Blachloch with  their own  magic,
weakened though  it might  be after  a  day in  the fields,  when  the
warlock lifted his fiery hand and pointed.

    A dwelling  place  burst  into  an inferno  of  flame.  Sounds  of
screaming came  from  within,  a woman  and  several  children  rushed
outside, their  clothes ablaze.  The Field  Magi stopped,  hesitating,
fear and confusion  replacing the  anger on  their faces.  A few  came
nearer, a few turned, stumbling, to help the victims of the fire.  But
there were  two  who kept  coming  toward Blachloch  and  Saryon,  one
already raising his hands, calling upon the forces of the earth to aid
him. His eyes were on Saryon, who could not move.

    He found himself hoping bitterly that the man would smite him down
where he  sat. But  Blachloch,  without undue  haste, moved  his  hand
slightly, pointing to another shack. It, too, burst into flame.

    "I can destroy  this entire village  in minutes," he  said in  his
expressionless voice to the approaching magi. "Cast your spell. If you
know anything of  the Duuk-tsarith you  know that I  can protect  both
myself and my catalyst from it. And  where will you get the energy  to
cast another? Your catalyst is  dead. Mine lives." Extending his  hand
to Saryon, he said, "Catalyst, grant me Life."

    Obedire est vivere.

    Saryon still could not move. In a dreamlike horror, he looked from
the magi to the body of the  young Deacon lying in the doorway  beside
the helpless overseer.

    Blachloch did  not turn,  he did  not look  at Saryon.  He  merely
repeated.

    "Catalyst, grant me Life."

    Again, there was no threat made, not even in the tone. Yet  Saryon
knew he would be made  to pay for his  lapse in duty, Blachloch  never
gave an order twice.

    Obedire est vivere.

    And he had no doubt the price would be high.

    "No," said Saryon softly and steadily, "I will not do it."

    "Well, well," Joram murmured, "the old man has more guts than  I'd
imagined."

    "What?" Mosiah, his  face pale  and strained, was  staring at  the
burning homes of the Field Magi  with wide eyes. Dazedly he turned  to
Joram. "What did you say?"

    "Look." Joram pointed to where  the warlock sat astride his  horse
not far from them,  the two young men  having ridden in the  vanguard.
"The catalyst. He's refused Blachloch's command for more Life."

    "Hell kill him!" Mosiah whispered in horror.

    "No, Blachloch's  smarter  than  that.  He  won't  kill  his  only
catalyst. Still, I'll bet the man will soon wish he was dead."

    Mosiah put his  hand to his  head. "This is  dreadful, Joram,"  he
said thickly. "I had  no idea-I didn't know  it would be like  this...
I'm leaving!" He started to turn his horse.

    "Get hold of yourself!" Joram  snapped, grasping his friend's  arm
and jerking him  back sharply.  '"You can't run!  The villagers  might
attack us..."

    "I hope they do!" Mosiah shouted furiously. "I hope they kill  you
all. Let go of me, Joram!"

    "Where will you go? Think!" Joram held onto him with the firm grip
of the iron forge.

    "I can get into the woods!"  Mosiah hissed, trying to twist  free.
"I'll hide there until you're gone. Then I'll come back here, do  what
I can for these people-"

    "They'll turn you  over to the  Enforcers," snarled Joram  through
clenched teeth, maintaining  his grip on  his friend with  difficulty.
Their horses, alarmed by the fire  and the smoke, the yelling and  the
young men's struggles, were milling  round and round, churning up  the
ground with  their hooves.  "Listen to  reason-Wait-" He  glanced  up,
"Look, your catalyst..."

    Mosiah turned, his gaze  following Joram's in time  to see two  of
Blachloch's henchmen drag Saryon  from his horse and  hurl him to  the
ground. Staggering, Saryon  tried to stand,  but two other  men, at  a
gesture from the warlock,  leaped from their  horses, grabbed hold  of
the catalyst, and held  him, arms pinned behind  his back. Seeing  his
commands being obeyed, Blachloch cast  a last glance at the  catalyst,
saying something  to  him  Joram  could not  hear.  Then  the  warlock
galloped off, yelling more commands to his men and gesturing toward  a
large building where the crops were  stored. As he passed, other  huts
burst into flame,  lighting the night  like a dreadful  sun fallen  to
earth.

    All around  Joram  and  Mosiah,  the  bandits  rode  to  do  their
commander's bidding,  some heading  for  the granary,  others  keeping
watch on the Field Magi, some  of whom were fleeing in terror,  others
were trying in vain  to save their homes  from the magical fires.  But
Joram's and Mosiah's attention was on the men holding Saryon.

    By the light of  the burning dwellings, Joram  saw a hand  clench,
then he heard the  sound of a fist  thudding into flesh. The  catalyst
doubled over  with a  groan, but  the guard  who held  him hauled  him
upright. The attacker's next blow smashed into Saryon's head. His face
suddenly dark with blood, the catalyst's choked cry was cut off as the
guard drove his fist once again into the priests stomach.

    "My god!"  whispered Mosiah.  Feeling his  friend's body  stiffen,
Joram turned to  him in  alarm. Mosiah's  face had  gone ashen,  sweat
stood on  his  forehead, and  he  was  staring at  the  catalyst  with
white-rimmed eyes. Looking back, Joram saw the catalyst slumped in his
captor's grasp,  moaning,  Clinching  as  more  blows  landed  on  the
unresisting body with ruthless efficiency.

    "No! Don't-Are  you  mad?"  Joram shouted,  hanging  onto  Mosiah.
"They'll do worse to you if you interfere..."

    But he might  have been talking  to the air.  Giving his friend  a
bitter, angry look, Mosiah kicked his horse violently in the ribs  and
dashed forward, nearly dragging  Joram out of his  saddle in his  wild
plunge.

    "Damn!" Joram swore,  searching around  for help to  try to  catch
Mosiah.

    "I say," came  a lilting  voice in his  ear, "grand  conflagration
this. I'm  quite enjoying  myself.  What about  toodling over  to  the
granary and watching them load sacks-Almin's blood, what's the matter,
dear boy?"

    "Shut up and come on!" Joram shouted, gesturing. "Look!"

    "More jollity," said Simkin  with enthusiasm, riding after  Joram.
"I'd completely missed that. What are they doing to our poor catalytic
friend?"

    "He refused  one  of  Blachloch's commands,"  Joram  said  grimly,
urging his excited horse to a gallop. "And look, there's Mosiah! Going
to get himself mixed up into this."

    "I feel I should point out  that from the looks of things,  Mosiah
is already mixed up in this," panted Simkin, jouncing along behind  as
he tried to keep up.  "Now, I enjoy beating up  a catalyst as much  as
the next man, but Blachloch's boys seem to be having quite a good time
and  I  don't  think  they'd   appreciate  us  horning  in  on   their
sport-Almin's blood and brains! What is our friend doing?"

    Leaping off his horse, Mosiah had hurled himself bodily at the man
who was beating Saryon,  knocking the henchmen to  the ground. As  the
two went down  in a  struggling heap, the  other guard,  who had  been
holding Saryon  while his  companion inflicted  the blows,  flung  the
catalyst to one  side. Conjuring  up a huge  branch in  his hand,  the
guard started to smash it down on the young man's head.

    "Mosiah!" Joram called,  sliding off his  horse and dashing  madly
toward them. But he  knew, with an aching  in his heart that  startled
him, that he must be too late.  The blow was falling that would  split
the young man's skull. Then Joram stopped, staring in astonishment  as
a brick appeared out of nowhere, materializing in the air right  above
the guard's head.

    "I say, take that!"  shouted the brick.  Dropping down, it  rapped
the guard smartly on the head, then tumbled into the grass. The  guard
took a staggering step, swayed drunkenly, and keeled over, landing  on
top of the brick.

    Jumping forward, Joram grabbed hold  of Mosiah, who had his  hands
around the guard's throat.

    "Let him go!" Joram grunted, wrenching his friend from his victim.
The man rolled  over, gasping  for air. Struggling  to escape  Joram's
hold, Mosiah lashed out with a booted foot and kicked the guard in the
head. The guard lay still.

    "He's finished! Leave  him alone!" Joram  ordered Mosiah,  shaking
him. "Listen! We've got to get out of here!"

    Glancing up  at  his friend,  his  eyes burning  with  blood-lust,
Mosiah shook his head dazedly. "Saryon," he gasped, wiping blood  from
a cut lip.

    "Oh, for the love of-" Joram began in disgust. "There he is, but I
think he's past  helping." He  gestured to the  catalysts inert  body,
which was lying crumpled on  the grass. "Get him  on a horse then,  if
you insist. Damn it, where the devils Simkin..."

    "Help!" shouted a muffled voice. "Joram! Get this cad off me!  I'm
suffocating from the stench!"

    Seeing Mosiah bending  over the catalyst,  Joram reached down  and
grabbed the henchman by his collar, heaving the man off the brick. The
brick disappeared, transforming itself into  Simkin. Holding a bit  of
orange silk over  his nose, the  young man stood  staring down at  the
henchman in disgust.

    "Egad, the lout! I'm quite nauseated. Where's Mosiah and the jolly
old catalyst?..." Looking around, Simkin's eyes widened. "Oh, I  say."
He gave a low whistle. "Here comes trouble."

    "Blachloch!"  Joram  muttered,   seeing  the  black-robed   figure
approaching through the smoke and flame. "Simkin! Use your magic.  Get
us out of here-Simkin?"

    The young  man was  gone. In  Joram's hand  was a  blood-spattered
brick.

    4

    Prisoners "Father..."

    Saryon started, roused from some  dark dream that seemed loath  to
let him loose from its clutches.

    "Father," said the  voice again.  "Can you  hear me?  How are  you
feeling?"

    "I can't see!" Saryon moaned, clutching at the source of the voice
with groping hands.

    "It's because of the gloom in  this foul place, Father," said  the
voice gently. "We feared light might disturb your rest. Here, now, can
you see?" The soft glow of a single candle illuminated Andon's  kindly
face, and brought inestimable relief to the catalyst.

    Sinking back on  the hard  bed, Saryon put  his hand  to his  head
where he felt a heaviness. Something  was obscuring his vision in  his
left eye. He tried to pull it off, but Andon's hand intercepted his.

    "Don't disturb the bandages.  Father," he instructed, holding  the
candle above Saryon, examining  him by its  light. "The bleeding  will
start again. It will be best for you to lie quietly for a few days. Is
there pain anywhere else?" he asked, a shadow of anxiety in his voice.

    "My ribs," answered the catalyst.

    "But not the stomach, the back?" Andon pursued.

    Wearily, Saryon shook his head.

    "Thank the Almin," murmured the old  man. "And now I must ask  you
some questions. What is your name?"

    "Saryon," answered the catalyst. "But you know that..."

    "You have  had a  severe  head injury,  Father.  How much  do  you
remember of what happened?"

    The dreams.  Had  they  been  dreams at  all?  "I-I  remember  the
village, the young Deacon..." Shuddering, Saryon covered his face. "He
slaughtered him, using my help! What have I done?"

    "I did  not mean  to  distress you,  Father," Andon  said  gently.
Setting the candle on the floor by his feet, he placed his hand on the
catalyst's shoulder. "You did what you  had to do. None of us  thought
Blachloch would go this far. But that is neither here nor there at the
moment. Do you remember anything else, Father?"

    Saryon searched his  memory, but  it was  all flame  and pain  and
darkness and terror. Seeing the catalyst's agonized face, the old  man
patted his shoulder and sighed. "I  am truly sorry, Father. Thank  the
Almin you are safe."

    "What happened to me?" Saryon asked.

    "Blachloch had  you beaten  for disobeying  him. His  men  were...
overzealous. They would have killed you, if it had not been for  him."
Andon turned, his gaze going to another part of the dark room.

    Slowly, conscious  now  of  a  dull aching  in  his  head,  Saryon
followed Andon's glance.  A young man  sat on a  chair beside a  crude
window, his head resting  on his arms, his  eyes staring out into  the
night sky.  A half-moon  shed  its pale,  cold  light upon  the  face,
emphasizing with sharply defined shadows the stern, sullen  harshness,
the heavy  black  brows,  the  full-lipped,  unsmiling  mouth.  Black,
curling hair shown purple in the moonlight, falling in a tangle around
the young man's broad shoulders.

    "Joram!" Saryon breathed in astonishment.

    "I must  admit, I  was  as amazed  as  you, Father,"  Andon  said,
speaking softly, though it appeared as if the young man was completely
oblivious to their  presence. "  Joram has  never seemed  to care  for
anyone before, not  even his friends.  He did not  even taken a  stand
against Blachloch's wickedness when I tried  to talk to him about  it.
He said  the world  cared nothing  for  us, why  should we  care  what
happened to it."  Shrugging helplessly, Andon  seemed perplexed.  "But
according to  Simkin,  when Joram  saw  you being  beaten,  he  hurled
himself into  the fray,  wounding one  guard severely.  Mosiah  helped
rescue you, too, I believe."

    "Mosiah... Is he all right?" Saryon asked anxiously.

    "Yes, he is fine. Nothing happened  to him. A warning to mind  his
own business, that is all."

    "Where are we?" Saryon asked, examining his bleak surroundings  as
well as the dim light and the pain in his head permitted. He was in  a
small, filthy brick building,  no bigger than a  single room with  one
window and a thick, oaken door.

    "You and Joram are being held prisoner. Blachloch put you both  in
here together, saying that  there was something  going on between  the
two of you and he intended to find out what."

    "This is the village  prison..." Saryon remembered vaguely  having
seen it on one of his walks.

    "Yes. You are  back in the  settlement. They carried  you here  by
boat up the river with the  stolen supplies. May they choke on  them,"
the old man muttered.

    Saryon glanced at him in some surprise.

    "My followers and I have taken a vow," Andon said softly. "We will
not eat the food that they  wrested from those unfortunate people.  We
would sooner starve."

    "It is my fault..." Saryon murmured.

    "No, Father." The  old man sighed  and shook his  head. "If it  is
anyone's fault it is  ours, we Sorcerers. We  should have stopped  him
when he came to us five years ago. We let him intimidate us. Or  maybe
it wasn't even that so much, although it is a comfort to look back and
say we were frightened of him. But were we? I wonder." Andons wrinkled
hand lifted from Saryon's shoulder, going to the pendant of the  wheel
that hung around his neck. Fingering  it absently, he stared into  the
flickering light of the candle that sat upon the stone floor near  his
feet. "I think that, in truth, we welcomed him. It was satisfying,  to
strike back at the world that reviled us." His mouth twisted bitterly.
"Even if it was only stealing a few bushels of grain by night.

    "His talk of supplying weapons of our Dark Arts to Sharakan seemed
a fine thing,  once." Andon's  eyes glimmered with  unshed tears,  the
rims grew red, "The  legends tell much about  the ancient days,  about
the glories of  our art.  Not all  was evil.  Much that  was good  and
beneficial was developed by  those of the Ninth  Mystery. If we  could
just have a chance to show people what wonders we could build, how  we
could save the use of magical  energies, allowing those to be  devoted
to the creation of  beautiful, marvelous things...  Ah well, such  was
our dream," he said wistfully, "And now it has been perverted by  this
evil man into a nightmare! He has led us to our doom. The  destruction
of that village will not be allowed to go unpunished. At least that is
what I believe. Blachloch laughs  at me when I  tell him my fears.  Or
rather, he doesn't laugh, the man never laughs. But he might as  well.
I can see the scorn in his eyes."

    " 'They dare not seek us out, ' he tells me."

    "He may be  right," Saryon  muttered, thinking  of Bishop  Vanya's
words. The Sorcerers numbers are growing and, while we could deal with
them easily enough,  still, going in  to take the  young man by  force
would mean armed conflict. It would mean talk, upset, worry. We cannot
have that, not now, while the political situation in court is in  such
delicate balance, "What are his plans?"

    The  catalyst  shivered.  The  prison  was  chill.  A  small  fire
flickered in a firepit at the end of the room, giving little light and
less warmth.

    "He intends us to work through the winter, making weapons. In  the
meantime, he  will  pursue  his  negotiations  with  Sharakan."  Andon
shrugged. "If we are attacked, Sharakan  will come to our defense,  he
says."

    "But it all means war,"  Saryon said thoughtfully, his gaze  going
once again to Joram, who was still staring fixedly out the window into
the moonlit night. Once  again, he heard Vanya's  words. Thus you  see
how vital it is that we take  this young man and, through him,  expose
these fiend for  what they are-murderers  and black-hearted  Sorcerers
who would pervert Dead objects by giving them Life. By doing this,  we
can show the people of Skarakan  that their Emperor is in league  with
the powers of darkness, and we can then encompass his downfall.

    But it wasn't the Sorcerers. He  looked back at Andon, an old  man
with a dream of bringing waterwheels to the world so that magic  could
be used to create rainbows instead of rain. He looked at Joram. He had
come to think  of this young  man differently, too,  now that he  knew
him.

    He is  not a  spawn of  demons as  I had  imagined him.  Confused,
bitter, unhappy, certainly,  but so was  I in my  youth. He  committed
murder, that is  true. But  what provocation! His  mother, lying  dead
before him. And am  I any better? Closing  his eyes, Saryon shook  his
head restlessly. Am  I not  responsible for  the death  of that  young
catalyst? If I take Joram back as I was instructed to do, will I bring
about the downfall of these people? What  must I do? Where can I  find
help?

    "I will leave now, Father," Andon said, picking up his candle  and
rising. "You are tired.  I have been selfish  in worrying you with  my
troubles when you have enough  of your own. We  will put our faith  in
the Almin and ask for His help and guidance..."

    "The Almin!" Saryon  repeated bitterly, sitting  up. "No, I'm  all
right. Just a little dizzy."  He swung his feet  over the edge of  the
bed, waving  off  Andon's  offer  of help  and  ignoring  his  worried
cluckings. "You talk as if you knew the Almin personally!"

    "But I do,  Father," Andon  replied, glancing at  the catalyst  in
some embarrassment. Setting the candle on a crude wooden table in  the
center of the prison, the old man knelt down and did what he could  to
stir up the fire, using his magic  to add to the warmth. "I know  that
we are supposed to talk  to Him only through  you priests, and I  hope
what I say will not offend you. But it has been many, many years since
a catalyst was among us to intercede with the Almin in our behalf.  He
and I have shared  many problems. He is  our refuge in these  troubled
times. His guidance led us to take  the vow that we will not eat  food
gained by blood and flame."

    Saryon gazed at the old man  in perplexity. "He speaks to you?  He
answers your prayers?"

    "I realize I am not a catalyst," Andon said humbly, fingering  the
pendant around his  neck as he  stood up, "but,  yes. He  communicates
with me. Oh, not in words. I do  not hear His voice. But a feeling  of
peace fills my soul  when I know  that I have made  a decision, and  I
know then that I have received His guidance."

    A  feeling  of   peace,  Saryon  thought   despondently.  I   have
experienced religious  fervor,  ecstasy, the  Enchantment,  but  never
peace. Did He ever talk to me? Did I ever listen?

    The catalyst groaned. His head  ached, his body hurt. Memories  of
flame danced in his vision, he could  see clearly the look of fear  on
the young Deacon's face  right before Blachloch-  "The Almin give  you
rest." There was the sound of a door closing softly. Saryon shook  his
head to clear it of the  fuzziness and instantly regretted the  action
that only caused the aching to change to a swift, sharp pain. When  he
was able to look around, he saw that Andon was gone.

    Standing on unsteady  feet, Saryon  tottered across  the room  and
sagged into a chair at the table. He knew he should probably lie  back
down but he was frightened, afraid to close his eyes again, afraid  of
what he would see.

    A pitcher  of water  made  him realize  he was  terribly  thirsty.
Reaching out an  unsteady hand,  trying to combat  the dizziness  that
threatened to overwhelm  him, he was  going to pour  water into a  cup
that sat nearby when a voice startled him.

    "They will starve to death this winter, the fools."

    Nearly dropping the pitcher, Saryon  turned to Joram, who had  not
spoken a word the entire time Andon had been in the prison.

    The young man did not move  from his place beside the window.  His
back was to Saryon now, since the  catalyst had risen from his bed  on
the other side of  the room. But Saryon  could picture the brown  eyes
staring into the moonlight, the sullen face.

    "And, Catalyst," Joram continued coldly, still not turning around,
"I did not save your life. They could beat the whole lot of you, and I
wouldn't lift a finger to stop them."

    "Then, what happened? Why-"

    "More of Simkin's lies," Joram said, shrugging his shoulders. "The
soft-hearted, soft-headed Mosiah rushed in to save your precious skin,
and I went to get him out of it. It was none of our affair, after all,
if you were  stupid enough  to defy Blachloch.  Then Simkin-But,  what
does it matter?"

    "What did Simkin have to do with it?" Saryon asked, trying to pour
the water into the cup and slopping most of it over the table.

    "What does Simkin ever have  to do with anything?" Joram  replied.
"Nothing. Everything. He got Mosiah off, which was more than the idiot
deserved."

    "What about you?"

    Throwing his  arm indolently  over the  back of  the chair,  Joram
turned back to face the catalyst.  "What does it matter about me?  I'm
Dead,  Catalyst,  or  had  you  forgotten?  In  fact,"  he  continued,
spreading his arms  wide, "this  is your  big chance.  Here we  are...
alone.  No  one  to   stop  you.  Open  a   Corridor.  Send  for   the
Duuk-tsarith."

    Sinking into  a  chair,  feeling his  strength  give  way,  Saryon
murmured, '"You could stop me." He had, in fact, been considering that
very idea and was appalled to find the young man had penetrated so far
into his mind. "Even the Dead have magic enough to stop a catalyst.  I
know. I've seen what you can do..."

    For long  moments, Joram  stared at  Saryon in  silence as  though
considering something. Then, rising suddenly, he approached the  table
and leaned down over  it, looking directly  into the catalyst's  pale,
drawn face. "Open a conduit to me," he said.

    Puzzled, Saryon drew back,  reluctant to give  this young man  any
additional strength. "I don't think-"

    "Go on!" Joram demanded harshly.  Muscles in the young man's  arms
twitched, the blood  veins stood  out beneath  the brown  skin as  his
hands gripped the  edges of  the table, the  dark eyes  flared in  the
candlelight.

    Mesmerized by the suddenly feverish gaze of the young man,  Saryon
hesitantly opened a conduit  to Joram... and  felt nothing. The  magic
filled him,  tingled in  Saryon's blood  and his  flesh. But  it  went
nowhere. There  was no  pleasant  rush of  transference, no  surge  of
energy between the two bodies... Slowly the magic began to seep out of
him as he stared at Joram in disbelief.

    "But this is impossible," he said, shivering uncontrollably in the
chill prison cell. "I have seen you work magic..."

    "Have you?" Joram  asked. Letting  go of  the table,  he stood  up
straight and folded his arms across his chest. "Or have you seen me do
this?" With a  sudden movement  of his hand,  he produced  a rag  with
which he proceeded to mop up the spilled water. Clapping his hands, he
made the rag disappear, an ordinary occurrence to Saryon-until he  saw
the young man pull the damp rag out of a cunningly concealed pocket in
his shirt.

    "My mother called it sleight-of-hand," Joram said coolly,  seeming
to enjoy Saryon's discomfiture. "Do you know of it?"

    "I have seen it  at court," Saryon said,  leaning his head on  his
hand. The dizziness had passed, but the aching in his temples made  it
difficult to think. "It is a... game..." He gestured feebly. "Young...
people play it."

    "I wondered where  my mother learned  it," Joram said,  shrugging.
"Well, it is a game that has saved my life. Or perhaps I should say it
is a game that is my life-all life being a game, according to Simkin."
He gazed down upon  the catalyst with a  sort of bitter triumph.  "Now
you know my secret,  Catalyst. You know what  no one else knows  about
me. You know the truth, something that even my mother couldn't face. I
am Dead. Truly Dead. No magic stirs  within me at all, less than  what
is in a corpse, if we believe the legends of the ancient Necromancers,
who were able to communicate with the souls of the dead."

    "Why have you told me?" Saryon asked through lips so stiff he  was
barely able to shape the  words. A memory came  to his aching mind,  a
memory of one other who had been Dead, truly Dead; one who had  failed
the Tests utterly as no one has failed them before or since...

    Joram leaned down again, close to him. The catalyst found  himself
cringing away from the touch of the young man as he would have cringed
at the touch of  dead flesh. No! Saryon  told himself, staring at  the
young man  in horror,  his  mind incapable  of  handling the  rush  of
thoughts that  burst over  him  in a  crashing wave.  Feeling  himself
drowning beneath them, the catalyst  banished them, blocked them  out.
No. It was impossible. The child was dead. Vanya had said so.

    The child was dead. The child is dead.

    Seeing the catalyst's confusion, Joram drew a little nearer.

    "I tell you  this, Catalyst,  because it  would have  been only  a
matter of time before  you found out anyway.  The longer I stay  here,
the greater my peril.  Oh"-he gestured impatiently-"there are  walking
Dead among us, yet they have  some magic. I am different.  Completely,
unspeakably, horribly  different! Have  you any  idea, Catalyst,  what
Blachloch and  these  people-yes,  even the  Sorcerers  of  the  Ninth
Mystery-would do to me if they found I was truly Dead?"

    Saryon could not  answer. He  could not even  comprehend what  the
young man was  talking about. His  mind had shut  its doors,  refusing
admittance to these dark and terrifying thoughts.

    "You must make a decision, Catalyst," Joram was saying, his  voice
coming to Saryon as through  a dark fog, "You  must either take me  to
the Enforcers now or you will stay with me here and help me."

    "Help you?" Saryon blinked in astonishment, this statement jolting
his aching brain back to reality, "Help you do what?"

    "To stop Blachloch," said Joram coolly, the half-smile shining  in
his dark eyes.

    5

    Tempted...

    "I regret the  incident. Father,  as I  am certain  you do."  said
Blachloch in his  expressionless voice. "And  now that the  punishment
has been administered and the lesson learned, we will speak no more of
it."

    The warlock sat at the wooden table in the prison. Evening's  gray
and dismal light-the  same color  as the damp  walls-came through  the
small window, along  with a  chill wind that  rattled the  ill-fitting
casement, blowing out the candle  flame and rendering the meagre  fire
practically worthless. Standing beside the window, Joram cast a glance
at the catalyst. Though bundled in his cloak and his robes. Saryon was
gray himself with the  cold. Joram smiled inwardly.  Clad only in  his
rough woolen shirt  and soft  doeskin breeches, the  young man  leaned
against the wall and stared out the cracked window, ignoring both  the
catalyst and the warlock.

    "Does this mean I can return to Andon's?" Saryon asked, his  teeth
chattering.

    Blachloch smoothed the  thin blonde mustache  upon his upper  lip.
"No, I am afraid not."

    "I am to be kept a prisoner, then."

    "Prisoner?" Blachloch  raised an  eyebrow. "There  are no  magical
spells laid upon this  house. You are  free to come and  to go as  you
choose. You  have  visitors. Andon  was  here last  night.  The  young
man"-he gestured toward Joram-"continues to  work in the forge  daily.
With the exception of the guard, who is here for your own  protection,
this in no way resembles a prison."

    "You can't expect  us to live  in this wretched  place during  the
winter!" Saryon snapped. The cold must be giving the catalyst courage,
Joram thought. "We'll freeze."

    Blachloch rose to his feet, his black robes falling in soft  folds
about his body. "By the time winter comes, I am certain you will  have
proven your loyalty to me, Father,  and you can move to quarters  more
suitable for a  man of  your age.  Not back  with Andon."  Blachloch's
black hood  stirred slightly  as he  moved to  depart. "I  have  often
wondered if it was the old man's influence that caused you to defy me.
I have, in fact, heard some rumor to the effect that he and his people
refuse to  eat the  food I  provided." Joram  had the  impression  the
warlock was looking at  him. "Starvation is  a slow and  uncomfortable
way to die, as is freezing to death. I trust this rumor is untrue."

    His black robes brushing the  dirt floor, Blachloch came to  stand
beside Saryon and laid his hand upon the catalysts shoulder.

    "Grant me Life, Father," he said.

    Glancing back, Joram saw the catalyst shudder at the touch of  the
thin  fingers  that  seemed  the   embodiment  of  the  biting   wind.
Involuntarily Saryon sought  to free  himself and  the fingers  closed
over his shoulder. Bowing his head,  the catalyst opened a conduit  to
the warlock and, suffused with magic, Blachloch vanished from sight.

    Clenching his hands into fists,  Saryon wrapped his arms close  to
his body. "The  man must be  stopped. What  help can I  give you?"  he
asked Joram abruptly Joram's face showed no reaction to the catalyst's
question.  But  within  himself,  he   was  exultant.  His  plan   was
progressing. But  he must  proceed carefully.  After all,  he  thought
grimly, he had to lure the man into the ways of the Dark Arts.  Giving
Saryon one cool, appraising glance, Joram returned to looking out  the
window, his arms  folded across  his chest  as he  leaned against  the
brick wall. "Is he gone?"

    "Who?" Saryon glanced around, startled. "Blachloch?"

    "The Duuk-tsarith  have the  power to  make themselves  invisible.
Still, I would suppose you have the power to sense his presence."

    "Yes," Saryon  replied  after  a moment's  concentration.  "He  is
gone."

    Joram nodded  and  continued  leading  the  unsuspecting  catalyst
toward darkness. "Simkin told  me that you had  once read some of  the
forbidden books about the Ninth Mystery."

    "Only one," Saryon admitted, flushing. "And I-I just had a glimpse
of it..."

    "How much do you know about the Iron Wars?"

    "I have read and studied the histories-"

    "Histories written by the catalysts!" Joram interrupted coldly. "I
knew those histories,  too, when I  came here. I  read the books.  Oh,
yes"-this in reply  to a  rustling sound  he heard  behind him-"I  was
raised as a child in a noble house. My mother was Albanara. But surely
you knew that?"

    "Yes, I knew... Where did she get the books?" Saryon asked.

    "I've  wondered,"  Joram  said   softly,  as  if  answering   some
often-asked, inner question. "She was  disgraced and outcast. Did  she
come to her  home in the  night, traveling the  Corridors of time  and
space? Did she float  through the hallways she  had known as a  child,
returning to the  site of  her lost youth  and shattered  life like  a
ghost doomed to haunt the place where it died?"

    Joram's face darkened. He fell silent, staring out the window.

    "I'm sorry for distressing you-" Saryon began.

    "Since then," Joram interrupted coldly, "I have read other  books,
their information is far  different from what  we were taught.  Always
remember, Andon  says, it  is the  winners of  the war  who write  the
histories. Did you know, for example,  that during the Iron Wars,  the
Sorcerers developed a weapon that could absorb magic?"

    "Absorb magic?" Saryon shook his head. "That's ridiculous..."

    "Is it?" Joram turned to look  at him. "Think about it,  Catalyst.
Think about  it logically  as you  are  so fond  of doing.  For  every
action, there is an opposite and  equal reaction, isn't that what  you
had said?"

    "Yes, but-"

    "Therefore, it stands to reason that in a world that exudes  magic
there must be some force that absorbs it as well. So the Sorcerers  of
long ago reasoned, and  they were right. They  found it. It exists  in
nature in a physical form that can be shaped and formed into  objects.
You don't believe me."

    "I am sorry, young  man," said Saryon  through clenched teeth.  He
sounded disappointed. "I gave up  believing in the House Magi's  tales
when I was nine."

    "Yet you believe in faeries?"  Joram said, regarding the  catalyst
with the strange  half-smile that  rarely touched his  lips, only  the
brown eyes.

    "I was with  Simkin," Saryon muttered,  flushing. Drawing as  near
the fire as possible, he hunched  down over it. "When I'm around  him,
I'm not certain whether I believe in myself, much less anything else."

    "Yet you saw them? You talked to them?"

    "Yes," Saryon admitted grudgingly. "I saw them..."

    "Now you see this."

    Joram plucked the object from  the air-so it appeared-and laid  it
on the table before the catalyst.  Picking it up, Saryon regarded  the
object suspiciously.

    "A rock?"

    "An ore. It is called darkstone."

    "It seems similar to iron, but what a strange color," Saryon said,
studying it.

    "You've a good eye,  Catalyst," said Joram,  pushing a chair  over
with his foot and seating himself  at the table. Picking up the  other
small piece of rock, he studied it himself, frowning. "It has many  of
the same properties  as iron.  But it  is different."  His voice  grew
bitter. "Vastly different, as I have reason to know. What knowledge do
you have of iron, Catalyst? I wouldn't have thought you had much to do
with ores."

    "If you  do not  want to  call me  by my  proper title,  which  is
'Father, ' I wish you would call  me by my name," said Saryon  gently.
"Perhaps that would remind you that I am a person like yourself. It is
always easier to hate than  it is to love, still  more easy to hate  a
class or race of people because they are faceless and nameless. If you
are going to hate me, I prefer that you do it because you hate me, not
what I represent."

    "Keep your sermons for Mosiah,"  Joram answered. "What I think  of
you or you of me doesn't matter in this, does it?"

    Seeing Joram's lip curl in disdain, Saryon sighed and looked  back
at the small  stone he held  in his  hand. "Yes, I  studied ores,"  he
said. "We study all the elements of which our world is composed. It is
knowledge valuable in  and of  itself, plus  it is  knowledge that  is
useful and  necessary  to  those  of  our  Order  who  work  with  the
Pron-alban, the  Stone Shapers,  or  the Mon-alban,  the  Alchemists."
Saryon's brow creased  in puzzlement.  "But I don't  recall seeing  or
reading about any mineral that looked like this, particularly one with
the same properties as iron."

    "That's because all references to it were purged after the  wars,"
Joram said, regarding  the catalyst hungrily,  his hands twitching  as
though he would tear knowledge from the man's heart. "Why? Because the
Sorcerers used  it  to  form weapons,  weapons  of  tremendous  power,
weapons that could-"

    "-absorb magic,"  Saryon  murmured,  staring at  the  stone.  "I'm
beginning to believe  you. Inside  the Chamber of  the Ninth  Mystery,
there are books scattered about the floor and stacked in piles against
the walls. Books of ancient and forbidden knowledge."

    Watching  the  catalyst  intently,  Joram  saw  that  Saryon   had
forgotten the chill  wind that wailed  mournfully through the  window,
that the  catalyst  had forgotten  his  own fear  and  discomfort  and
unhappiness. Joram looked into his eyes and saw there the same  hunger
he knew was in his own-the hunger for knowledge. The words came almost
reluctantly from Saryon's lips: "How did they do it?"

    I have him, thought Joram. Once, the man came close to selling his
soul for knowledge. This time I will  see to it that he completes  the
bargain.

    "According to the texts," Joram said, careful to speak calmly  and
suppress his  rising excitement,  "the ancients  mixed darkstone  with
iron to form an alloy-"

    "What?" Saryon interrupted.

    "An alloy, a mixture of two or more metals."

    "Was this done by  alchemy?" Saryon asked, a  note of fear in  his
voice. "By changing the base form of the metal through magic?"

    "No." Joram  shook his  head, noticing  the catalyst's  increasing
pallor with amusement. "No. It is done according to the rituals of the
Dark Arts,  Catalyst, The  ores are  ground, heated  to their  melting
points, then physically joined together. They are then cast in  molds,
beaten  and  tempered,  and  formed  into  swords  or  daggers.  Quite
deadly"-Joram's gaze went back  to the stone he  held in his  hand-"as
you can imagine. First the sword drains a wizard of his magic, then is
able to penetrate his flesh."

    Beside him, Joram felt the catalyst's body shudder. Saryon set the
stone down  hastily.  "You  have  tried this?"  he  asked  in  a  low,
trembling voice.

    "Yes," Joram answered coldly. "It didn't work. I formed the  alloy
and poured it into a mold. But  the dagger I created shattered when  I
put it into water..."

    Closing his eyes,  Saryon sighed.  It may have  been with  relief,
certainly that's  what he  told himself.  But the  young man  watching
closely  wondered   if  there   was  not   an  underlying   tinge   of
disappointment.

    "Perhaps this  rock  is  nothing more  than  some  strange-looking
stone," Saryon said  after a moment.  "Perhaps it is  not the ore  you
read about in  the texts. Or  perhaps the texts  themselves lied.  You
would not be able to tell if it could absorb magic-" He hesitated.

    "-since I am Dead," finished Joram. "No, you are right." He pushed
the ore across the table toward the catalyst. "Yet you should be  able
to tell. Try it, Catalyst. What do you sense about this ore?"

    Saryon lifted the stone in his hand. For long moments he looked at
it, then, shutting his eyes, he sensed for the magic.

    Watching closely, Joram saw the catalyst's face grow peaceful, the
man's concentration turning inward. His  expression became one of  awe
and  bliss,  he  was  absorbing  the  magic.  But  then,  slowly,  the
catalyst's expression changed to one of horror. Quickly he opened  his
eyes, and set the stone down upon the table, hurriedly withdrawing his
hand from it.

    "This is the darkstone!" Joram said softly.

    "I do not see  why it should excite  you," Saryon said. He  licked
his lips as though he had a bitter taste in his mouth. "The secret  to
forming the ancient alloy is apparently one you cannot unlock."

    "Not me," said  Joram softly. "You,  Catalyst. You see"-he  leaned
near-"the formula for  the alloy is  given in the  text, but I  cannot
read it. It is-"

    "-mathematics." Saryon's lips twisted.

    "Mathematics," Joram repeated. "Something  my mother never  taught
me, of course, since it is an art of the catalysts." Shaking his head,
the  young  man   clenched  his  fist,   forgetting  himself  in   his
earnestness. "The texts  are filled with  mathematical equations!  You
cannot know, Saryon, how frustrating this  was to me! To be so  close,
to have found the ore they spoke  of, and then to have my way  blocked
by what is  so much gibberish  dancing across  the page. I  did all  I
could. I thought maybe by experimenting I could come across the  right
answer by accident.  But my  time was  short, and  Blachloch began  to
suspect. He is having me watched." Picking up the rock, Joram held  it
in his open palm, then slowly closed his fingers over it, as though he
would crush it in his hand. "I don't believe I would have ever  gotten
it right anyway," he continued with growing bitterness. "There's a lot
about catalysts in there. Directions to them. I thought I could ignore
that, but apparently not."

    "You called me 'Saryon, '" the catalyst said to Joram quietly.

    Looking up, Joram flushed. He hadn't meant to do that, this wasn't
part of his  plan. There was  something about this  man, something  he
hadn't counted on finding, particularly not in a catalyst. Someone who
understood.

    Angrily, Joram's  face hardened;  the  black brows  drew  together
threateningly. No, he  must stick to  the plan. This  man was a  tool,
nothing more.

    "If we're going to be working together, I suppose I must call  you
by name," he said sullenly. "I will not call you 'Father'! " he  added
with a sneer.

    "I haven't  agreed to  work with  you," Saryon  replied  steadily.
"Tell me, if  you create this...  this weapon, what  will you do  with
it?"

    "Stop Blachloch,"  Joram  answered  with  a  shrug.  "Believe  me,
Cata-Saryon-it is only a matter of time before he destroys me. He  has
so much as told me so already. As for you-Well, do you want to be part
of another raiding party?"

    "No," Saryon said in a low  voice. "Will you take over  leadership
of the coven then?"

    "Me?" Joram shook his head with  a mirthless laugh. "Are you  mad?
Why should I want such responsibility? No, I will give the  leadership
of the coven back to Andon. He and these people can live in peace once
more. As for me, I want only one thing. To return to Merilon and claim
what is mine. With this weapon," he said grimly, "I can do it."

    "You forget one thing," Saryon said. "I was sent to bring you back
to... to stand trial."

    "You are right," Joram said after a pause, "I had forgotten.  Very
well"-he shrugged-"open a Corridor. Call the Duuk-tsarith,"

    "I cannot open a Corridor without the assistance of a magic-user,"
Saryon replied, "If you had sufficient Life, I could use yours..."

    "That was the plan?"

    "Yes," Saryon murmured inaudibly.

    "A pity  it didn't  work out,  Catalyst," Joram  answered  coolly.
"Weak though you may be,  I am weaker yet. Now,  that is. Once I  have
the weapon, however... Well, you will do what you have to do when  the
time comes. Perhaps your Bishop might consider Blachloch an acceptable
trade for me. As for now-Saryon-are you with me? Will you help free us
both, and help  free Andon  and his people?  You know  they will  keep
their vow, and you know what Blachloch will do to them."

    "Yes," Saryon said. Clasping  his hands, he  looked down at  them,
noticing the blueness in his  fingernails. "I'm losing the feeling  in
my fingers," he murmured. Rising to his feet, he walked from the table
to the feeble fire. "I wonder what the Almin is doing now," he said to
himself, holding his  hands to  the warmth. "Getting  ready to  attend
Evening Prayers in  the Font?  Preparing Himself to  listen to  Bishop
Vanya praying for guidance  that he probably  doesn't need? No  wonder
the Almin stays there, safe and secure, within the walls of the Font.

    "What an easy job."

    6

    Fallen "It cannot be done," said Saryon, looking up from the  text
he was reading, his face pale and strained.

    "What do you mean, it can't be done?" Joram demanded, ceasing  his
restless pacing and coming to stand  next to the catalyst. "Don't  you
understand it? Can't you  read the math? Is  there something we  lack?
Something we're missing? If so-"

    "I mean it cannot be done because  I will not do it," Saryon  said
wearily, leaning his head upon his  hand. He gestured at the text.  "I
understand it," he continued in a  hollow voice. "I understand it  all
too well. And I will  not do it!" He closed  his eyes. "I will not  do
it."

    Joram's face  twisted  in fury,  his  fist clenched,  and  for  an
instant it  seemed as  though he  might strike  the catalyst.  With  a
visible effort, the young man  controlled himself and, taking  another
turn about  the small,  underground chamber,  forced himself  to  calm
down.

    As he heard Joram walk away,  Saryon opened his eyes, his  wistful
gaze falling on the volumes  and volumes of leather, hand-bound  texts
that stood neatly arranged on wooden bookshelves, so crudely fashioned
that it appeared they might have  been the work of children. An  early
example of woodworking without the use of magic, the catalyst guessed.
He felt Joram's anger-it  radiated from him like  a wave of heat  from
the forge-and Saryon sat tense and expectant, waiting for the  attack,
either verbal or physical. But none came. Only a seething silence  and
the  steady,  measured  pacing  of  the  young  man  walking  out  his
frustration.  Saryon  sighed.  He  would  almost  have  preferred   an
outburst. This coolness in one so young, this control over a nature so
obviously in turmoil, was frightening.

    Where did  it come  from?  Saryon wondered.  Surely not  from  his
parents,  who-if  reports   were  true-gave  way   to  passions   that
encompassed their downfall. Perhaps this  was some sort of attempt  at
reparation, Joram's father reaching out  to him with his stone  hands.
Or then there  was that other  possibility, the one  that had come  to
Saryon out of the darkness, out of the pain of his injury. The one  he
had shut out, the one he would never think of again...

    Saryon shook his head angrily. What nonsense. It was the influence
of this room, it had to be.

    Joram sat down in a chair beside him.

    "Very well-Saryon," he  said, his  voice cool and  even, "tell  me
what must be done and why you will not do it."

    The catalyst sighed again. Raising his head, he looked back at the
text that lay before him on the table. Smiling sadly, he ran his  hand
over the pages with a touch almost caressing. "Do you have any idea of
the wonders within these pages?" he asked Joram softly.

    Joram's eyes  devoured  the  catalyst, watching  every  nuance  of
expression upon the man's tired,  lined face. "With these wonders,  we
could rule the world," he replied.

    "No, no, no!" Saryon said  impatiently. "I meant wonders,  wonders
of learning. The  mathematics..." His eyes  closed again in  exquisite
agony. "I am  the best  mathematician of  this age,"  he murmured.  "A
genius they  call me.  Yet  here, "within  these  pages, I  find  such
knowledge that makes  me feel  like a  child crouched  at my  mother's
knee. I don't  begin to  understand them.  I could  study for  months,
years..." The look  of pain faded  from his face,  replaced by one  of
longing. His  hand stroked  the  pages of  the  text. "What  joy,  "he
whispered, "if I had found this when I was young..." His voice died.

    Joram waited, watching, as patient as a cat.

    "But I didn't," Saryon said. Opening  his eyes, he moved his  hand
away from the  pages of the  text swiftly, as  another might move  his
hand from a burning brand.  "I have found them now  that I am old,  my
conscience fixed,  my  morals formed.  Perhaps  those morals  are  not
right," he added, seeing Joram frown, "but, such as they are, they are
fixed within me. To deny them or fight them might drive me mad."

    "So you  are saying  that you  understand what  this  means"-Joram
gestured toward the  text-"and that  you could  do what  must be  done
except that it goes against your conscience?"

    Saryon nodded.

    "And did it go against this conscience of yours to kill that young
catalyst in the village-"

    "Stop!" Saryon cried in a low voice.

    "No, I won't stop,"  Joram returned bitterly.  "You're so good  at
preaching sermons, Catalyst.  Preach one  to Blachloch.  Show him  the
evil of his ways  as he ties  old Andon by his  hands to the  whipping
post. You watch  while his  men flail the  flesh from  that old  man's
bones. You watch, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that it  may
be wrong but it isn't going against your conscience-"

    "Stop!" Saryon's fist  clenched. He  glared angrily  at the  young
man. "I don't want to see that happen anymore than you-"

    "Then, help  me  to stop  it!"  Joram  hissed. "It's  up  to  you,
Catalyst! You're the only one who can!"

    Saryon shut his  eyes again, resting  his head in  his hands,  his
shoulders slumped.

    Sitting back,  Joram watched  and waited.  The catalyst  raised  a
haggard face. "According  to the  text, I  must give  Life... to  that
which is Dead."

    Joram's face darkened, the thick brows drew together. "What do you
mean?" he asked tightly. "Not to me-"

    "No." Drawing a deep breath, Saryon turned to the text. Moistening
a finger, he carefully turned one of the brittle parchment pages,  his
touch gentle and reverential.  "You have failed  for two reasons.  You
have not been mixing the  alloy in the correct proportions.  According
to this formula, that is quite  important. A deviation of a few  drops
can mean the difference between success and failure. Then, once it  is
taken from the  mold, the  metal must be  heated to  a extremely  high
temperature-"

    "But it will lose its form," Joram protested.

    "Wait..." Saryon raised his hand. "This second heating is not done
in the fires of the forge." Licking his lips, he paused a moment, then
continued, speaking slowly and reluctantly.  "It is heated within  the
flame of magic..."

    Joram stared at him in confusion. "I don't understand."

    "I must open a conduit, take the magic from the world, and  infuse
it into  the  metal." Saryon  looked  at Joram  steadily.  "Can't  you
understand, young man? I must give the Life of this world to something
Dead, made by the  hands of men. This  goes against everything I  have
ever believed. It is truly the blackest of the Dark Arts."

    "So what will  you do,  Catalyst?" Joram asked,  sitting back  and
regarding Saryon with triumph.

    But Saryon  had lived  over forty  years in  the world.  Sheltered
years, as he had come to learn, but he had lived them nonetheless.  He
was not  the fool  Joram thought  him, walking  near the  edge of  the
cliff, his eyes staring at the sun shining above him instead of at the
reality of the world around him. No, Saryon saw the chasm. He saw that
in a very few  steps he would  fall over the edge.  He saw it  because
this was a familiar path he walked, one he had trod before, though  it
had been a long time ago.

    A soft knocking upon an overhead door caused both men to start  up
in alarm.

    "Well?" said Joram insistently.

    Looking at him,  seeing the  eager intensity of  the face,  Saryon
drew a breath,  shut his  eyes, and leaped  off the  cliff, "Yes,"  he
answered inaudibly.

    Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Joram hurried across the  door
to the center of the small room  and peered upward as the door in  the
ceiling above him opened a crack.

    "It is Andon," came  the whisper. "The guard  is looking for  you.
You must return."

    "Let down the ladder."

    A rope ladder tumbled  down in response, Joram  catching it as  it
fell.

    "Catalyst..." He motioned.

    "Yes," Gathering his robes  about him, Saryon  came over to  stand
beneath the  ladder,  not  without  a  final,  hungry  glance  at  the
storehouse of treasure that surrounded him.

    "Should we take the book with  us?" Joram asked, starting back  to
pick it up.

    "No," Saryon said tiredly. "I have the formula memorized. You  had
best put it back in its place, however."

    Hastily Joram set the  book on the shelves,  then snuffed out  the
candle. Thick darkness buried the chamber, musty with the smell of the
ancient texts lying in their hidden sepulcher.

    Did the spirits of those who  had written them live in this  place
as well, Saryon wondered as he  fumbled clumsily with the rope  ladder
in the  dim light  from a  candle Andon  held above  them. Perhaps  my
spirit will return here when I  am dead, the catalyst thought,  unable
to refrain from  a backward  look as he  clamored up  the ladder  with
Joram's impatient assistance. Certainly, here, I could remain  happily
for centuries.

    "Here, Father, give me your hand."

    He was at  the top. Clasping  him by the  wrist, Andon pulled  him
through the trapdoor, helping Saryon climb up into the old mine  shaft
that ran beneath  Andon's house. "Hold  the light," the  old man  told
him, handing him the candle in its wrought-iron holder. Shadows leaped
and danced about the rock walls as Saryon took the light.

    Joram pulled  himself  up easily;  Saryon  looked at  the  strong,
muscular arms with envy. Bending down, the young man made certain  the
trapdoor was closed tightly, then  he and Andon between them  fastened
it with something  the old  man called a  lock, inserting  a piece  of
oddly shaped  metal into  it and  turning it  with a  clicking  sound.
Returning the key to his pocket, Andon stepped back and, after a brief
inspection, nodded to Joram.

    Placing his hands upon  a gigantic boulder,  the young man  slowly
and with obvious effort rolled the rock into place over the  trapdoor,
effectively concealing it from sight.

    Andon shook his head.  "It generally takes two  grown men to  move
that  rock,"  he  said  to  Saryon,  watching  Joram  and  smiling  in
admiration. "At least so  I remember from my  youth. The rock had  not
been moved in years, not until  the young man here insisted on  seeing
the ancient texts." He sighed. "There was no need to move it, no  need
to go down  there. None  of us  can read them,  nor could  they in  my
father's day. I saw that rock moved  only once, and then I suppose  it
was just to  check to make  certain the texts  were surviving  without
damage."

    "They are well preserved," Saryon murmured. "The room is dry. They
should last for centuries if they are undisturbed."

    His face  soft  with  sympathy,  Andon  laid  his  hand  upon  the
catalyst's arm. "I am sorry, Father. I can imagine how you must feel."
His brow creased in irritation. "I tried to tell Joram-"

    "No, do not blame him," Saryon said steadily. "It was my  decision
to come here. I am not sorry I did."

    "But you seem upset..."

    "So much knowledge... lost," the catalyst replied, his gaze  going
to the boulder, his thoughts with what lay beneath it.

    "Yes," agreed Andon sadly.

    "Not lost,"  said Joram  coming  over to  them, his  eyes  burning
brighter than  the flame  of the  candle. "Not  lost..." he  repeated,
rubbing his hands.

    "'Pon my  honor,  it's devilishly  cold  in  here. Or  is  that  a
contradiction in  terms? You'll  forgive me,  I trust,"  Simkin  said,
slipping into a fur cape that he conjured up with a negligent wave  of
his hand, "but I have a tendency to weakness in the lungs. Sister died
of pneumonia, you know. Well, not  actually. She died of being  rather
badly squashed from falling off one  of the platforms in Merilon,  but
she wouldn't have fallen if she hadn't been wandering about  delirious
from the fever that she ran on account of the pneumonia. Still-"

    "Not now,"  snapped Mosiah,  sitting down  at the  table near  the
young man. "We can't stay long. The guard didn't want to let us in  at
all, but Simkin got  Blachloch to agree  to it. Why  did you send  for
us?"

    "I need your help," Joram said, sitting down near the young men.

    "Oh, I say, a conspiracy!  How frightfully fearful sounding. I  am
all ears.  I could  be all  ears, you  know," Simkin  added in  sudden
inspiration. "If it would help."

    "All mouth is nearer the mark. Shut up," muttered Mosiah.

    "I won't say  another word." Muffled  to the eyes  in fur,  Simkin
obligingly snapped  his  lips  shut  and gazed  at  Joram  with  grave
intensity that was,  however, rather  spoiled by a  gaping yawn.  "Beg
pardon," he said.

    Huddled, shivering, in a corner as close to the feeble fire as  he
could get, Saryon snorted in disgust. Joram glanced at him  irritably,
making a motion  as if to  reassure him.  Then he turned  back to  his
friends.

    "The catalyst and I have to get out of here tonight..."

    "You're escaping?" Mosiah asked eagerly, "I'll come with you-"

    "No, listen!" Joram said in  exasperation. "I can't tell you  what
we're doing. It's better you don't know, anyway. In case anything goes
wrong. We  have to  get out  of here  and back  in without  the  guard
knowing and, more important, we have to be free to do... what we  have
to do without being interrupted."

    "That should be easy." Mosiah appeared disappointed. "You went  to
Andon's last night-"

    "And the guard escorted us there and back, just like he escorts me
to the forge every day," Joram finished grimly.

    "In other words," said Simkin coolly, "you want the guard to be in
the land  of Bidey-Bye  whilst you  two perform  dark and  treacherous
acts. In the morning you want him to find you slumbering peacefully in
your little beds when he himself awakes."

    Glancing at Simkin,  Saryon stirred  uneasily. The  young man  was
near the mark with his playful guessing. Too near. The catalyst hadn't
wanted to involve these two at all-Mosiah because it was dangerous and
Simkin because he was Simkin.

    "In addition," the fur-covered young man was continuing languidly,
"you do not want interruptions  by one person in particular-our  Blond
and Baleful Leader. My dear boy"-Simkin snuggled comfortably into  his
cape-"nothing simpler. Leave everything to me."

    "What do you intend to do?" Saryon asked, his voice rasping.

    "I say, old fellow. You're not taking cold, are you?" Simkin asked
anxiously, twisting  around  to look  over  at the  catalyst.  "A  bit
dangerous for one  of your  advanced years.  Carried off  the Earl  of
Mooria in a matter of days, and  he was your age to the year.  Sneezed
his head off. Quite literally.  It landed-splat-in the baked  custard.
Oh,  Duke  Zebulon  said  it  was  just  his  little  joke-a  sort  of
after-dinner entertainment for the amusement of his guests-and that he
never meant his catalyst to take  him seriously and grant him such  an
excessive amount of magic.  But we all wondered.  He and the Earl  had
quarreled over  Swan's  Doom  just  the  day  prior.  Something  about
cheating. At any rate, the  guests were highly diverted. Nothing  else
was talked of for weeks. It's quite  the thing, now, to land a  dinner
invitation from the Duke-"

    "I am not taking cold!" Saryon snapped when he could get a word in
edgewise.

    "Delighted to hear it," Simkin said earnestly, leaning over to pat
the catalyst's hand.

    "Let's get on with this,"  Joram said impatiently. "The guard  and
Blachloch?"

    "Ah, yes. I knew we were talking about something else. The  guard.
I'll handle him," said Simkin.

    "How?" asked Mosiah suspiciously, glancing at the catalyst. It was
obvious he and  Saryon shared the  same opinion of  the bearded  young
man.

    "A mild sedative-recipe known only  to myself and the  Marchioness
of Lonnoni, who had fourteen children.  So much for the guard. Now  as
to Blachloch. I am engaged to play tarok with him this evening anyhow.
He will not disturb you. 'Pon my honor."

    "Honor!" Mosiah sneered. "I'm coming with you."

    "Oh,  no.  Quite  impossible,"  Simkin  said  with  another  yawn.
Stretching his feet out toward the fire, he lounged back in the  chair
at a seemingly impossible angle, shifting around until he got  himself
completely comfortable. "Not to sound unfeeling, but you are a bit  of
a bumpkin, dear boy. I mean, I don't dare take you anyplace in  polite
society. Table manners  quite shocking. Besides,"  he added,  ignoring
Mosiah's glare, "someone should stay  here in this wretched shack  and
keep up the illusion that Father and Son are within."

    "That's not a bad idea," said Joram, placing his hand on  Mosiah's
clenched fist restrainingly. "What would he have to do?"

    "Nothing much," said Simkin,  shrugging his fur-cloaked  shoulders
like a dainty bear. "Build up the  fire. Move back and forth in  front
of the window  now and  then so  that his  shadow is  visible. I  say,
Mosiah," he added with a yawn so wide his jaws cracked, "I could  even
conjure your hair to  look like Joram's. Just  a little help from  our
Life-giving friend here and  your tresses would be  the envy of  every
woman in the settlement. Long, thick, luxuriant..."

    Mosiah turned  to Joram,  "He's  a buffoon,"  the young  man  said
quietly. "You're staking your life on a fool!"

    The bored expression on Simkin's bearded face changed suddenly  to
a look so shrewd and penetrating that Saryon could have sworn, for  an
instant, that a stranger sat there. Mosiah had his back turned to  the
young man; Joram was scowling at Mosiah.  No one saw the look but  the
catalyst, and before he  could realize it or  absorb it, the look  was
gone, replaced by the playful, negligent smile.

    The fur cape vanished, as  did the silken breeches and  waistcoat.
There was a blur of color and, in an instant, Simkin was dressed  from
head to toe  in motley.  Rainbow colors wildly  clashing, his  ribbons
fluttering, and bells tinkling, Simkin slithered out of his chair  and
crawled on  hands  and  knees  across  the  floor  to  Joram.  Sitting
cross-legged before him, he shook the bells on his cap.

    "A fool, yes, I am a  fool," cried Simkin gaily, "waving his  arms
in a grand flourish, the ribbons  floating about him like a  swirling,
multicolored fog. "I am Joram's fool. Remember the tarok reading?  The
king of Swords was your card! You will be Emperor someday and you will
need a fool, won't you, Joram?" Leaning forward, Simkin put his  hands
together in a mockery of prayer. "Let me be your fool, sire. You  need
one, I assure you."

    "Why, idiot?" asked Joram, the half-smile in his dark eyes.

    "Because only  a  fool dares  tell  you the  truth,"  Simkin  said
softly.

    Joram stared at Simkin in silence for as long as it took to draw a
breath, then-seeing the bearded face  split into a grin-he lifted  his
booted foot and placed it firmly on the young man's chest, shoving him
backward. Tumbling head over heels, laughing wildly, Simkin  performed
a graceful somersault and came up on his feet.

    Ignoring Simkin, who was  dancing about the  room, Mosiah put  his
hand on  Joram's  shoulder, almost  shaking  him in  his  earnestness.
"Listen to  me," he  said urgently.  "Forget this!  Forget the  cards,
forget whatever idea you have  of challenging Blachloch. Oh, come  on,
Joram! I know you! I've  heard you talk. I'd be  a fool myself not  to
figure it out. Let's  take this chance to  escape! Let Simkin use  his
potion on the guard, and well try our luck in the Outland. We can make
it. We're young and strong, plus we'll have the catalyst along to give
us Life, You'll come, won't you, Father?"

    Saryon could do nothing but nod. The idea of losing himself in the
wilderness was suddenly so appealing that he would have rushed out the
door then and there if but one person had led the way.

    Joram  did  not  immediately   answer,  and  Mosiah,  seeing   the
thoughtful expression on his friend's  dark face and mistaking it  for
interest, hurried on.  "We could  go north, to  Sharakan. There'll  be
work for  us  there. No  one  knows us.  It's  dangerous, but  not  as
dangerous as staying around here, not as dangerous as fighting Blach-"

    "No," said Joram quietly.

    "Joram, think-"

    "You think!" Joram said. Flame flickered  in the brown eyes as  he
shook Mosiah's hand from his shoulder. "Do you believe for one instant
that Blachloch  would  just  let his  catalyst  escape  without  doing
everything in his  power to bring  him hack? And  his power is  pretty
damn  extensive.  What  are  the  Duuk-tsarith  trained   for-hunting,
tracking people down!  He knows  the Outland!  We don't.  And when  he
caught us, he'd kill us, you and  I. What are we, after all? But  what
about the catalyst? What do you think he would do to him?"

    "Cut off his hands," said Simkin, divesting himself of the  fool's
clothing with  a gesture.  Dressed once  more in  his habitual  garish
costume, he conjured up the fur  cape and draped it gracefully  around
his shoulders. "It's what they used to  do to them in the old days,  I
understand,"  he  continued  with  an  apologetic  glance  at  Saryon.
"Doesn't affect their usefulness, you see."

    Scowling, Mosiah kept his eyes on  Joram. "And what happens if  he
catches us now?"

    "He won't."

    Mosiah turned away. "Come on," he said to Simkin. "We've been here
long enough. The guard will get suspicious."

    "Yes, we must be running along," Simkin said, following. "I  think
I feel a definite stuffiness in my nose. I-Ah-choo! There, what did  I
tell you! The catalyst has given  me his cold! I'm-Ah-choo! quite  put
out!" The orange bit of silk fluttered in the air. Applying it to  his
nose, Simkin sniffed gloomily. "And such a strenuous evening ahead  of
me, too. Blachloch cheats, you know."

    "No, he doesn't. He's too good. You cheat," said Joram dryly.

    "Because he always wins! Even when I cheat, I never seem to manage
that. I suppose I should keep my mind  on the game. See you in a  bit,
dear boy. Must  go pick  the pretty flowers  and mix  up the  potion."
Simkin winked, "Be ready. You'll hear my voice..." Nodding toward  the
guard, who could be seen watching  from the doorway of a house  across
the street, Simkin sauntered out of the prison.

    "What about you?" Joram asked, stopping Mosiah in the doorway.

    "Maybe, maybe not," Mosiah answered without looking at him. "Maybe
I'll leave by myself, before you all get caught."

    "Well... good luck, then," Joram said coldly.

    "Thanks." Mosiah  gave him  a hurt,  bitter glance.  "Thanks  very
much. Good luck to you, too."

    Slamming the door shut behind him, he left abruptly.

    Looking out the  window, Saryon  could see him  walking away,  his
head bowed.

    "He cares a lot for you," the catalyst said quietly, turning  from
the window to Joram, who was mixing a bowl of gruel over the coals  of
the fire.

    The young man did not reply, he might not have even heard.

    Crossing their small,  cold prison,  Saryon lay down  on the  hard
bed. How long  had it  been since  he'd slept?  Truly peaceful  sleep?
Would he ever  be able to  sleep again?  Or would he  always see  that
young Deacon, the look of fear as he saw death in the warlocks eyes?

    "Do you trust  Simkin?" Saryon  asked, staring up  at the  rotting
beams of the ceiling.

    "As much as I trust you, Catalyst," Joram replied

    7

    The Storm "C'mon,  old hag, be  brisk there. Take  any longer  and
supper'll be breakfast!"

    The old woman to  whom this was addressed  made no reply, nor  did
she appear to move faster. Shuffling back and forth between table  and
fireplace, carrying vegetables in  her apron, she  tossed them into  a
pot hanging by a hook over the fire. Slumped in a chair by a table  he
had dragged over near the window, the guard watched these  proceedings
with a growl,  his attention divided  between the old  woman, the  pot
bubbling over the fire-from  which came a  strong smell of  onions-and
the prison across the street.

    The very faintest  light shone in  the window of  the prison,  the
light of  a feeble  fire.  Occasionally the  guard could  see  shadowy
figures cross back and forth in front of the window. There was no  one
on the streets  this night; no  one came to  visit the prisoners.  The
prisoners had made no move to leave, for which the guard was grateful.
This was no night to be out.  A cold slanting rain drove into the  mud
street like spears, arrowtips of sleet rattled against the windows  of
the houses, while the wind leading this onslaught shrieked and  howled
tike a demon horde.

    "It's stupid, keepin' a man here this night," muttered the  guard.
"Not even the Prince of  Devils would be out in  a storm the likes  of
this. A'nt that ready yet, you old bitty?" Half-turning in his  chair,
he raised his hand as  if to cuff the  woman. Being slightly deaf  and
dim of vision, she still paid no  attention to him, and the guard  was
just getting to his  feet when he  was startled by  the rattle of  the
door lock.

    "Open up in there!" came an eerie voice as shrill as the wind.

    The guard cast a swift glance across the street. The feeble  light
still burned in the prison, there were no shadows at all to be seen in
the windows.

    "Hullo! Hullo!" cried the voice. This was followed by a  battering
and banging on the door that seemed likely to stave it in.

    The guard was not overburdened with imagination, but then  neither
was he overburdened with intelligence.  Having summoned the Prince  of
Devils to mind,  so to speak,  the guard found,  like many  conjurers,
that it was difficult  to banish him. That  this gentleman might  have
arrived to claim his soul seemed  not unlikely, having been told by  a
mother he only dimly  recalled that this was  undoubtedly going to  be
his fate. Rising to his feet, he  peered out the window in an  attempt
to see  the visitor,  but could  make out  nothing but  an  indistinct
shadow.

    "Answer the door!" the guard shouted at the old woman, having some
vague idea that the Prince might not be particular about whose soul he
claimed. But the old woman's attention was fixed solely upon the stew,
for she heard neither shout nor door.

    "Is anybody home?" came the voice, and the rattling increased.

    At this, hope glimmered within the guard. Shrinking back from  the
window so  that he  couldn't be  seen, he  judged it  likely that  the
unwanted visitor would go away. To insure this, he made several  signs
to the  old  woman,  indicating  she  was to  go  on  about  her  work
undisturbed.

    Unfortunately, this frantic hand-waving did what all the  shouting
in  the  village  could  not  have  done-it  caught  the  old  woman's
attention. Seeing the guard pointing at the door, she nodded and, with
shuffling gait, walked over and opened it.

    A blast  of chill  wind, a  flurry of  rain, a  stinging spray  of
sleet, and a huge furry figure all burst into the room simultaneously.
Only one of these  nocturnal visitors was  permitted to stay  however.
Turning around, the  furry figure  put his shoulder  against the  door
and, with  the  old  woman's  help,  slammed  it  shut  upon  the  icy
intruders.

    "Almin's death,"  swore a  sepulchral voice,  slightly muffled  by
frost-rimed fur, "I might have  perished out there on that  doorstoop!
And here I've come for you specially."

    At  this  confirmation  of  his  fears,  though  he  had  expected
something more  fiery  with tails  and  horns, the  guard  could  only
stammer incoherently until the  figure removed its  hat and hurled  it
upon the floor with another oath.

    This was matched by an oath from the guard. "Simkin," he muttered,
sinking back down in his chair in weak-kneed relief.

    "So this is the thanks I  get, after nearly perishing of the  cold
to bring you a  bit of cheer,"  said Simkin with  a sniff, tossing  an
aleskin upon the table in front of the guard.

    "What's that?" the man demanded suspiciously.

    "A little something from dear old Blachloch," said the young  man,
with a casual  wave of his  hand as he  went to stand  near the  fire.
"Sharing in the  captured spoils,  commendation for job  well done,  a
toast drunk  to rape,  pillage,  and plunder,  and  all that  sort  of
thing."

    The guard's face lit  up. "Well, that's fine,  that is," he  said,
eyeing the aleskin greedily  and rubbing his  hands. A sudden  thought
occurred to him. His eyes narrowing, he turned around. "Here, now," he
said surlily,  glancing  at  Simkin  who was,  it  seemed,  taking  an
uncommon interest in the stew. "You can't stay. I'm on guard duty  and
I'm not to be bothered."

    "Believe me,  dear chap,  I wouldn't  stay here  for all  the  pet
monkeys in Zith-el," Simkin  sniffed and, grabbing  the bit of  orange
silk from the air,  put it to  his nose. "I assure  you, the smell  of
onion and unbathed lout hold no attraction for me. I am an errand boy,
that is all,  and I will  remain here  long enough to  warm myself  or
until I pass  out from the  odor, whichever comes  first. As for  your
guard duty"-he  cast  a  disdainful  glance  out  the  window-"it's  a
complete waste of time, if you ask me."

    "I didn't, but you're right  there," said the guard, sitting  back
comfortably, not at all disconcerted by Simkin's insults once  assured
the young  man would  not be  sharing his  repast. "I  c'n  understand
puttin' up with  the catalyst,  makin' sure he  toes the  mark. But  a
clunk over t'head and a dip in t'river would settle that  black-haired
bastard of a kid. Why Blachloch puts up with 'im is beyond me."

    "Why indeed,"  murmured Simkin  in bored  tones, his  eyes on  the
guard, who was pulling the cork  on the aleskin. "Well, back into  the
night, as they say. You take care, Grammie," the young man  whispered.
"Get to bed early, and when you do, be certain to put out the light."

    Simkin emphasized  this last  with a  wink and  a nod  toward  the
guard, who was sniffing  at the ale and  licking his lips. Looking  at
him with eyes suddenly  shrewd and penetrating,  the old woman  smiled
and bobbed her white cap, then shuffled back to dish up the stew,  her
ears deaf to all but whispers, it would seem.

    Cheered by the sight of the guard putting the neck of the  aleskin
to his lips, Simkin hurried out the  door into the teeth of the  storm
and dashed across the  street. Blinded by  darkness, rain, sleet,  and
his huge fur hat, he promptly collided with someone.

    "Simkin! Watch where you're going.!" snarled a voice in  irritated
relief.

    "I say, Mosiah! So you  didn't venture into the wilderness,  after
all. No, not the  door, the lout's still  watching. Come over here  in
the shadows. Wait..."

    "For what? I'm freezing! Didn't you-"

    "Ah, there's the signal." The  light in the guard's house  blinked
out, leaving  it dark  except for  the reflected  gleam of  the  fire.
Darting out from behind the corner  of the prison, Simkin tapped  upon
the door, which opened at his knock.

    Darting inside, Simkin dragged Mosiah with him, and Joram  slammed
the door shut  behind them.  "A fine  night you've  picked for  this,"
Simkin said through clicking teeth.

    "I know," remarked Joram coolly from the depths of the shadows  in
the chill room. "With the fog and  the rain, the light from the  forge
won't be seen."

    "It  won't   matter  if   it   is,"  muttered   Mosiah,   standing
hunch-shouldered and shivering near the door. "I talked to the  smith.
He's let the word  out among Blachloch's men  that some of his  people
might be working  tonight-make up  for the  time lost  because of  the
raid. Don't worry,"  Mosiah returned  in answer to  Joram's frown,  "I
didn't tell him anything and he didn't ask. His sons were with us when
the village burned.  They've taken  the vow. You-  Well, never  mind,"
Mosiah stopped.

    "You what?" said Joram.

    "Nothing," Mosiah mumbled. You can trust him had been on  Mosiah's
lips, but,  looking at  Joram's dark,  cold expression,  he shook  his
head.

    The half-smile lit the  brown eyes like the  light from the  dying
embers. Joram knew  what his  friend had intended  to say  and why  he
hadn't said it.

    "What about the guard?"

    "The lout is out  on his snout,"  reported Simkin, highly  pleased
with his rhyme  that he had  been composing all  evening. "I-Oh,  good
evening, Father. I didn't see you, lurking about the shadows.  Getting
in practice? I say, you don't  look at all well. Cold still  bothering
you? I got over  mine, fortunately. Blachloch and  a cold in the  head
would simply be too much to deal with..."

    Saryon said nothing. He hadn't even heard Simkin. He couldn't hear
anything above the sound of the wind, prowling about the prison like a
beast of prey yearning for the blood it smelled inside.

    Once, long ago, Saryon had heard  the wind talk. Only then it  had
whispered, "The Prince is Dead... The Prince is Dead..." and its  tone
had been sad and sorrowful. Now it shrieked and yammered, "Dead, Dead,
Dead!" in a  kind of  mad triumph, delighting  to torment  him in  his
downfall.

    "Saryon..."

    The wind  spoke  to  him,  calling him  by  name,  summoning  him-
"Saryon!"

    Blinking, he started.

    "I-I'm sorry," he murmured. "I was... just... Is it time?"

    "Yes." Joram's voice was cool  and toneless. The wind seemed  more
alive. "Simkin's gone. We should delay no longer."

    "Here, Father, you'll  need more  wraps than  that," said  Mosiah,
struggling out of his own wet cloak.

    "He'll warm  up  quick  enough  in  the  forge,"  muttered  Joram,
irritated at the delay.

    Paying no attention  to Joram, Mosiah  overrode Saryon's  confused
protests and helped the catalyst put the young man's cloak on over his
shabby robes.

    "Are you finally ready?"  Joram asked and,  without waiting for  a
reply, cautiously  opened the  door and  peered into  the street.  Not
surprisingly, its only  occupants were  the rain, the  sleet, and  the
wind. Grabbing a cloak Mosiah handed  to him at the last moment-or  he
might  have   gone   out  into   the   bitter  weather   without   any
protection-Joram carelessly tossed it around his shoulders and stepped
out into  the storm  whose fierceness  seemed reflected  on the  young
man's face.

    Moving more slowly, Saryon followed.

    "May the Almin go with you," came Mosiah's soft whisper.

    Saryon shook his head.

    As though  waiting for  him to  emerge, the  wind pounced  on  the
catalyst with a snarl. Chill talons  of rain ripped through his  cloak
and robes with ease; teethlike sleet bit into his flesh. But the  wind
wasn't intent  on devouring  him,  it seemed.  Dogging his  heels,  it
panted behind him, driving him forward, its breath cold upon the  back
of his neck. Saryon had the vague impression that if he tried to  veer
from this dark path  he walked, the wind  would leap to intercept  him
and block him, nipping at his bare ankles, its slashing fangs a threat
and a reminder.

    Death, Death, Death...

    "Confound it,  Father, watch  where you're  going!" Joram's  voice
cracked impatiently, but his strong  arm steadied Saryon, who, in  his
misery and bleak despair, had nearly  walked into a gully filled  with
icy water.

    "It's not much  further," said  Joram. Glancing at  the young  man
through the driving rain, Saryon saw that Joram's teeth were clenched,
not against the  chill of the  storm but against  the excitement  that
raged within him. And, as though conjured up by the young man's voice,
the cavern of  the forge  suddenly rose up  out of  the darkness,  its
red-glowing embers  staring  at the  catalyst  like the  eyes  of  the
creature that had been pursuing him.

    Joram dragged aside the heavy, wooden door to let them in.  Saryon
started to step inside, the warmth and peace of the fire-lit  darkness
beckoning him. Then he  hesitated. He could turn  and run. Go back  to
his Church. Obedire  est vivere. Vivere  est obedire. Yes!  It was  so
simple! He would obey. Hadn't  catalyst done that for centuries,  obey
without question?

    But the wind only laughed at him, mocking him, and Saryon realized
that the storm had been building all his life, rising from that  first
whisper to this shriek  of triumph. Lifting the  skirts of his  robes,
the wind  tugged at  him from  the sides  and pushed  him from  behind
until, with a final,  wild shriek, it shoved  him over the small  rock
ledge and sent him staggering into the red-tinged blackness.

    Behind him, Joram dragged the heavy door shut again, then  hurried
to his work.  Standing in the  forge, relaxing in  the warmth,  Saryon
stared around  in the  fascination he  could no  longer deny.  Strange
tools gleamed in the reflected glow of the coals that burned  brighter
as Joram, operating the bellows, gave them life. The children born  of
this fiery union cluttered  the floor-horseshoes, bits, broken  nails,
half-finished knives, iron pots. Absorbed  in his work, Joram paid  no
attention to the catalyst.  Sitting down, careful to  keep out of  the
young man's way, Saryon  listened to the harsh  breath of the  bellows
and realized suddenly that he could no longer hear the wind.

    The storm  raged  still,  its fury  increasing,  perhaps,  in  its
triumph at its victory over the catalyst. The wind roared through  the
streets, tore  limbs  from  trees,  tiles  from  roofs.  Rain  knocked
threateningly at every door, sleet  tapped against the windows.  Those
inside  the  large  brick  dwelling  upon  the  hill  overlooking  the
Technologists' settlement  were able  to  ignore the  storm,  however.
Absorbed in the intricacies of their games-and there was more than one
game being played-they paid scant attention to the vagaries of  nature
without, being far more concerned with those within.

    "Queen of Cups, high trump  card. That takes your Knight,  Simkin,
and the next two  tricks are mine, I  believe." Blachloch laid a  card
upon the table and, sitting  back, stared at Simkin expectantly.  "How
are our prisoners getting along?" the warlock asked casually.

    Looking at  the  card before  him  in some  consternation,  Simkin
regarded his hand thoughtfully. "Plotting against you, O Winning One,"
he said with a shrug.

    "Ah"-Blachloch smiled  slightly, rubbing  the  tip of  his  finger
along his blond mustache-"I guessed as much. What are they plotting?"

    "Doing you in, that sort of thing," Simkin replied. Looking up  at
Blachloch with a sweet smile, he  laid a card down upon the  warlock's
queen. "I'll sacrifice this to protect my Knight."

    Blachloch's expressionless  face tightened.  The lips  compressed,
drawing the mustache into a straight, thin line. "The Fool! That  card
has been played!"

    "Oh, no,  dear  boy,"  said  Simkin with  a  yawn.  "You  must  be
mistaken-"

    "I am never mistaken," Blachloch retorted coldly. "I have followed
the fall of  the cards with  the utmost attention.  The Fool has  been
played, I tell you. Drumlor sacrificed it to protect his King..."  The
warlock looked at his henchman for confirmation.

    "Y-yes," stammered Drumlor. "I-I... That is-"

    Having been  invited  to play  simply  so there  would  be  three,
Drumlor had neither love  for nor interest in  the game. Like many  of
the other guards, Blachloch had taught  him to play in order that  the
warlock would  have someone  with  which to  game. These  nights  were
nerve-racking experiences to poor  Drumlor, who barely remembered  the
last card he had played, much less a card ten tricks earlier.

    "Really, Blachloch, the only Fool  this imbecile remembers is  the
one he saw  this morning when  he looked  into the mirror.  I say,  if
you're going  to get  into a  snit,  go back  through the  tricks!  It
doesn't matter anyway"-Simkin tossed his cards on the table-"you  have
defeated me. You always do."

    "It isn't the winning," Blachloch remarked, turning over  Simkin's
cards  and  sorting   through  them,  "it   is  the  game   itself-the
calculating, the strategy,  the ability to  outwit your opponent.  You
should know that, Simkin. You and I play the game for the sake of  the
game, do we not, my friend?"

    "I assure you, dear fellow,"  said Simkin languidly, leaning  back
in his chair, "the game is the only reason I continue to exist on this
wretched patch of grass and gravel  we call a world. Without it,  life
would be so  boring one might  as well curl  up into a  ball and  drop
oneself into the river."

    "I will  save you  the trouble  one day,  Simkin," Blachloch  said
mildly, sorting back through the tricks, flipping the cards over  with
skilled, rapid motions of his slender hands. "I do not tolerate  those
who mistakenly believe they can outwit me." With a flick of his wrist,
the warlock tossed a card in front of Simkin. There were now two  Fool
cards upon the table.

    "It isn't my fault,"  said Simkin in  aggrieved tones. "It's  your
deck, after all.  I shouldn't wonder  if you weren't  trying to  cheat
me." The young man sniffed and  the orange silk appeared in his  hand.
Delicately, Simkin wiped his nose. "Frightful night out there, I think
I have caught cold."

    An unusually strong gust of wind hit the house, causing timbers to
creak. From somewhere nearby  came a crash, a  tree limb breaking  off
and falling to the ground. Shuffling the cards, Blachloch glanced  out
the window. His gaze suddenly became fixed.

    "There's a light in the forge."

    "Oh, that," said  Drumlor, starting.  He had been  nodding off  to
sleep, his body slowly sliding out  of his chair to Simkin's  infinite
amusement. Catching himself, the  man struggled upright. "The  smith's
got some men... workin' late."

    "Indeed," said  Blachloch. Stacking  cards  neatly, he  slid  them
across to Simkin. "Your  deal. And remember, I  am watching. Which  of
the men is working?"

    "Joram," said Simkin, sliding the cards over to Drumlor to cut.

    A muscle twitched  in Blachloch's  cheek, the  eyes narrowed.  The
hand that  had  been negligently  lying  upon the  table  tensed,  the
fingers curling in upon each other slightly. "Joram?" he repeated.

    "Joram. An  inauspicious gameplayer,  by  the way,"  Simkin  said,
yawning. "Too impatient. Quite often he can be inveigled into  playing
his trump cards early on, instead  of holding them until later in  the
game, when they'll do him more good."

    Preparing to deal, Simkin's attention was on Blachloch's face, not
the cards.

    "What about the catalyst?" Blachloch asked, gazing out the  window
at the  red spot  of  flame in  the cavern  that  winked on  and  off,
obscured by the driving rain and sleet.

    "A much more skilled player, though you might not think so to look
at him," Simkin  replied softly, absently  shuffling the cards  again.
"Saryon plays by the book, my friend." A smile lingered upon  Simkin's
lips, "I say, let's not play anymore. I begin to find this game deadly
dull."

    Drumlor cast Simkin a look of profound gratitude.

    "I'll tell your  fortune instead,  shall I?" the  young man  asked
Blachloch nonchalantly.

    "You know  I don't  believe  in that-"  Turning from  the  window,
Blachloch caught  a glimpse  of Simkin's  face. "Very  well," he  said
abruptly.

    The wind rose again. Rain tried to enter by the chimney, hissed as
it fell into the  fire. Sitting back into  his chair, Drumlor  crossed
his hands over his belly and  drifted off to sleep. Simkin handed  the
cards to Blachloch.

    "Cut them..."

    "Skip that nonsense,"  the warlock  replied coldly.  "Get on  with
it."

    Shrugging, Simkin took the cards back.

    "The first card is your past," he said, turning it over. A  figure
in a miter sat upon a  throne between two pillars. "The High  Priest."
Simkin raised an eyebrow. "Now, that's a bit strange..."

    "Continue."

    Shrugging, Simkin  turned  over the  second  card. "This  is  your
present. The Magus Reversed. Someone who's magic but isn't..."

    "I'll interpret them for myself," Blachloch said, his eyes on  the
cards.

    "Future"-Simkin turned over the third card-"King of Swords."

    Blachloch smiled.

    8

    The Forging  of the  Darksword "What  a strange  color it  burns,"
Saryon murmured. "Iron  glows red. This  is white. I  wonder why?  The
difference in  properties,  undoubtedly.  How I  wish  I  could  study
it-Now,  be  careful.  Measure  it  precisely.  There."  He   scarcely
breathed, lest even that should cause Joram to slip and pour too  much
of the molten liquid.

    "This doesn't seem enough," Joram remarked, frowning.

    "No more!" Saryon said urgently, his hand darting forward to  stop
the young man. "Add no more!"

    "I'm not," Joram replied coldly, lifting the crucible and  setting
it aside.

    The catalyst felt he could breathe again. "Now you must-"

    "This part  I know,"  Joram interrupted.  "This is  my craft."  He
poured the fiery liquid into a large mold made of clay, held in  place
by wooden boards.

    Looking at  it, Saryon  swallowed nervously.  His mouth  was  dry,
tasting of iron, and he  thirstily drank a cup  of water. The heat  in
the forge was stifling.  His robes were black  with soot and wet  with
sweat. Joram's body glistened in the firelight. Held back by a leather
band around his  forehead, his  black hair curled  tightly around  his
face. Watching the young man as  he worked, Saryon felt that tug  upon
his memory, a sliver of pain as sharp as a thorn.

    He had seen hair like that, admired it. It had been long ago in...
in... The memory was almost there, then it was gone. He sought for  it
again but it would not return and remained lost in the leaves of musty
books, buried beneath figures and equations.

    "Why are you staring at me? How long is the cooling period?"

    Saryon came back to  the present with a  start. "I-I'm sorry,"  he
said. "My thoughts were... far away. What did you ask?"

    "The cooling..."

    "Oh, yes. Thirty minutes." Rising stiffly to his feet, he suddenly
realized he had not moved  for an hour, and decided  to see if it  was
still storming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joram reach for a
timekeeping device, and it was a mark of Saryon's abstraction that  he
gave it no more than a glance,  although, when he had first seen  what
Andon called an "hourglass,"  he had been lost  in fascination at  its
remarkable simplicity.

    He felt the cold before he even neared the cavern entrance. Bitter
as it had been before, it was worse now, contrasted with the warmth of
the forge. Once again, Saryon could  hear the howling of the wind  but
it sounded distant, as though the beast were chained outside,  wailing
to get in.

    Shaking his  head, Saryon  hastily returned  to the  forge,  where
Joram was busy cleaning up all traces of their strange work.

    "How much darkstone  exists?" the catalyst  asked, watching  Joram
carefully brush the  fine grains of  the pulverized ore  into a  small
pouch.

    "I don't know.  I found  these few  rocks in  the abandoned  mines
below Andon's house. According to what I read in the texts, there  was
a large deposit of the ore located around here. Of course, that's  why
the Technologists came to  this place after the  war. They planned  to
forge their weapons anew, return, and take their revenge on those  who
persecuted them."

    Saryon felt the accusing, penetrating  gaze of the dark eyes,  but
he did not flinch before it. From  what he had seen in the books,  the
members of his  Order had been  right in banishing  this Dark Art  and
suppressing this dangerous knowledge. "Why didn't they?" he asked.

    "They had too many other  things to worry about," Joram  muttered,
"such as  staying  alive. Fighting  off  the centaurs  and  the  other
mutated creatures created and then abandoned by the War Masters.  Then
there was hunger, sickness. The few  catalysts who had come with  them
died, leaving no heirs  behind. Soon, all the  people cared about  was
survival. They  stopped keeping  records.  "What for?  Their  children
could not read. They didn't have time to teach them-the fight to  live
was too desperate. Eventually,  even the memories  and the old  skills
died, and with  them died  the idea of  going back  and seeking  their
revenge. All  that remain  are the  chants  of the  Scianc and  a  few
rocks."

    "But the chants carry the  tradition, surely they could have  been
used to carry on  the knowledge," Saryon argued  mildly. "What if  you
are wrong, Joram? What  if these people realized  the horror they  had
come near bringing upon the  world and chose to deliberately  suppress
it themselves?"

    "Bah!" Joram snorted, turning around from where he had hidden  the
crucible in  the refuse  pile. "The  chants preserve  the key  to  the
knowledge. It was the only way the wise could hope to pass it on, when
they saw the darkness of ignorance beginning to close in around  them.
And that is  what refutes your  sanctimonious theory, Catalyst.  There
are clues in the litanies to those  who truly listen to them. That  is
where I got the idea of searching in the books. To the Sorcerers" - he
gestured out beyond the cavern walls at the settlement-"the chants are
nothing but mystical words, words of magic and power maybe, but,  when
you get right down to it, only words."

    Saryon shook his head, unconvinced. "Surely there would have  been
those before now who recognized that."

    "There have been," Joram said, the half-smile burning deep in  his
dark eyes. "Andon, for  one. Blachloch for another.  The old man  knew
the clues were there, he knew they  led to the books that had been  so
carefully preserved." Joram shrugged. "But  he couldn't read. Ask  him
sometime, Saryon, about  the bitter  frustration that  gnawed at  him.
Hear him tell about going down into the mine shaft and staring at  the
books, cursing them even,  in helpless fury, because  he knew that  in
them was the  knowledge to  help his  people, more  precious than  the
treasure of the Emperor,  and just as  impossible to acquire-to  those
without the key."

    Joram spoke with  a low, passionate  intensity Saryon found  quite
remarkable in  the  usually reticent,  sullen  young man.  When  Joram
mentioned the key, his hand closed  over some unseen object, his  eyes
flamed with a feverish excitement. The catalyst stirred uncomfortably.
Yes, now he had the key, the  key to the treasury. And Saryon  himself
had shown him how it fit the lock.

    "What did you say  about Blachloch? " he  asked, trying to  banish
his uncomfortable thoughts and trying also  to keep his mind from  the
fact that the  sand in the  bottom of the  hourglass was  accumulating
rapidly.

    "The first time he heard the chanting, so Andon says, he heard the
clues and deduced  the existence  of the  books. But  the old  man-who
feared Blachloch from the beginning-refused to tell him where to  find
them. That must have been frustrating for the warlock." The half-smile
almost touched Joram's lips. "A master in the art of 'persuasion'  and
he doesn't  dare use  it,  knowing that  the  entire camp  would  rise
against him."

    "He's biding his time,  that's all," Saryon  said softly. "He  has
the people so firmly in his grip now that he can take what he wants."

    Joram did not answer; his gaze  was fixed on the clay box,  though
he glanced impatiently  at the  hourglass now and  then. Saryon,  too,
fell silent, his thoughts leading him places he would just as soon not
wander. The  silence  grew  so  deep  that  he  became  aware  of  the
difference in  the sound  of their  breathing-his somewhat  rapid  and
shallow as opposed to Joram's deeper,  more even breaths. He began  to
fancy he could hear the swishing of the sand falling through the  neck
of the glass.

    The sands ran out. Slowly,  almost reluctantly, Joram rose to  his
feet and reached  for a  hammer. Grasping it  in his  hands, he  stood
above the  mold where  it rested  on the  stone floor  of the  cavern,
staring down at it.

    "What about you?" Saryon asked  suddenly. "Why did Andon show  the
books to you?"

    Looking up  at the  catalyst, the  dark eyes  dark no  longer  but
glowing as if their  cold ore had been  heated among the coals,  Joram
smiled-a smile of victory, triumph, a smile that touched his lips,  if
only with darkness. "He didn't. Not the first time. Simkin did."

    Raising the hammer, Joram hit the  clay box, shattering it at  one
blow. The firelight gleamed orange on his skin as he crouched over the
dark object lying in the midst of broken clay and splintered wood. His
hand shaking with eagerness, he cautiously reached out to pick it up.

    "Careful, the heat..." warned Saryon,  moving nearer to it,  drawn
by a fascination he refused to explain to himself or even to admit.

    "It isn't hot," whispered Joram in awe, holding his hand above the
object, "Come nearer, Saryon!  Come look! See  what we have  created!"
Forgetting his enmity in his excitement, he grasped the catalysts  arm
and dragged him closer.

    What had  he  expected?  Saryon wasn't  certain.  There  had  been
illustrations of  swords  in  the ancient  text-detailed  drawings  of
gracefully curved  blades,  ornately  carved handles,  done  with  the
loving remembrance of those who had once held these tools of  darkness
in their hands.  Saryon was  surprised he  recalled the  illustrations
with such  clarity, having  told himself  repeatedly that  these  were
tools of darkness, instruments of Death. Yet now he realized, when  he
felt the pangs of disappointment, that  he had been picturing them  in
his mind, secretly admiring them for their delicate efficiency. He had
been eager-maybe  as eager  as the  young man-to  see if  he  couldn't
emulate this beauty.

    They had failed.  Recoiling, Saryon  jerked his  arm from  Joram's
grasp. This thing that lay upon the stone floor was not beautiful.  It
was ugly. A tool of darkness, an instrument of Death, not a bright and
shining blade of light.

    It occurred to  Saryon that  centuries of  craftsmanship had  been
behind the making of the swords portrayed in the ancient texts.  Joram
was a beginner, untrained, without  skill, without knowledge, with  no
one to teach him. The sword he had fashioned might have been wielded a
thousand years before by some savage, barbaric ancestor.

    It was made  of a  solid mass  of metal-hilt  and blade  together,
possessing neither grace nor form.  The blade was straight and  almost
indistinguishable from  the  hilt.  A  short,  blunt-edged  crosspiece
separated the two.  The hilt was  slightly rounded, to  fit the  hand.
Joram had added  a bulbous protrusion  on the end  in some attempt  to
weight it,  Saryon having  reasoned that  this would  be necessary  in
order to handle the weapon effectively.

    The weapon was crude and ugly. Saryon might have been able to deal
logically with that. But there was something more horrifying about the
sword, something devilish-the rounded knob on the hilt, combined  with
the long neck of the hilt itself, the handle's short, blunt arms,  and
the narrow body of the blade, turned the weapon into a grim parody  of
a human being.

    The sword lay like  a corpse at his  feet, the personification  of
the catalyst's sin.

    "Destroy it!" he gasped hoarsely, and was actually stretching  out
his hand to take hold of it, with some wild notion of hurling it  into
the very heart of the blazing coals, when Joram knocked him aside.

    "Are you mad?"

    Losing his  footing,  Saryon stumbled  backward  into a  stack  of
wooden forms. "No, I am sane for the first time in days," he cried  in
a hollow voice, picking himself up. "Destroy it, Joram. Destroy it, or
it will destroy you!"

    "Going into the fortune-telling business?" snarled Joram  angrily.
"You'll rival Simkin!"

    "I do not  need cards to  see the future  in that weapon,"  Saryon
said, pointing at it with a  trembling hand, "Look at it, Joram!  Look
at it! You  are Dead, but  life beats  and pulses in  your veins!  You
care, you feel! The sword is dead! And it will bring only death."

    "No, Catalyst!"  Joram said,  his eyes  as dark  and cold  as  the
blade. "For you will give it Life."

    "No." Saryon shook his head resolutely. Gathering his robes  about
him, he  sought  for  the words  to  argue  with Joram  and  make  him
understand. But he could  look at nothing, think  of nothing, but  the
sword lying upon  the stone  floor, surrounded  by the  refuse of  its
making.

    "You will give  it Life, Saryon,"  Joram repeated softly,  lifting
the weapon clumsily in  his hand. Bits of  clay clung to its  surface.
Thin tentacles of  metal, from  where the  molten alloy  had run  into
small crevices within the mold, branched out from the body. "You  talk
very righteously of death, Catalyst. And you are right. This"-he shook
the sword  awkwardly,  almost dropping  it,  its weight  twisting  his
wrist-"is dead. It deals death. But the blade cuts both ways,  Saryon.
It deals life as well.  It will be life for  Andon and his people,  to
say nothing of the others out there Blachloch plans to exploit."

    "You don't  care about  any of  that!" Saryon  accused,  breathing
heavily.

    "Perhaps I don't," Joram  said coldly. Straightening, tossing  the
curly mane of black hair back from his face, he stared at Saryon,  the
dark eyes expressionless.  "Who does? The  Emperor? Your Bishop?  What
about your  god  even?  No,  just you,  Catalyst.  And  that  is  your
misfortune, not mine. Because you care, you will do this for me."

    Saryon's tongue clove to the roof  of his mouth. Words seethed  in
his brain, but found no utterance.  How could this young man see  into
the very darkness of his soul?

    Seeing the catalyst's agonized face and wide, staring eyes,  Joram
smiled once again, that eerie smile in which there was no light.

    "You  say  we  have  brought  death  into  the  world,"  he  said,
shrugging. "I say death was already in the world, and we have  brought
life."

    The sword lay upon the anvil. Joram had placed it once again  into
the coals, heating it until the metal was malleable. The weapon glowed
red, taking on the properties of the iron in the alloy rather than the
white-glowing darkstone. Now,  with ringing blows  of his hammer,  the
young man  beat the  edges of  the  blade thin.  Once the  weapon  was
tempered, he would use a stone wheel  to grind the point and edges  to
cutting sharpness.

    Saryon watched Joram work,  his mind in  turmoil, his eyes  glazed
and stinging.  His head  pounded  with the  hammer blows  that  jolted
through his body.

    Life... death... life... death...  Every hammer blow, every  heart
beat, struck it out. Saryon had been wrong. The sword wasn't dead,  he
realized now.  It was  alive, terribly  alive, twisting  and  jerking,
seeming to revel  in every  blow. The  noise was  unnerving, but  when
Joram finally cast the hammer  aside, the terrible silence was  louder
and more painful than the hammer's pounding. Gripping the sword firmly
with long  iron  tongs, Joram  looked  grimly over  at  the  catalyst.
Hunched miserably in his  robes, Saryon shivered  with a chill  sweat,
"Now, Catalyst," said Joram.  "Grant me Life." He  spoke in a  mocking
voice, imitating Blachloch.

    Saryon closed his eyes, but he could still see the red fire of the
forge imprinted upon the lids. It  seemed his vision swam with  blood.
Joram's image was there,  an indistinct patch  of darkness, while  the
weapon he  held glowed  a garish  green. Visions  appeared amidst  the
flame and  blood-the young  Deacon, dying;  Andon, bound  to a  wooden
stake, his body sagging  beneath the blows;  Mosiah, running, but  not
fast enough to shake off his pursuers.

    I say death is in the world...

    Saryon hesitated.  Other  visions  came  to  his  mind-the  Bishop
carrying the tiny  Prince to his  death, all the  children he  himself
sent to their deaths "for the sake of the world."

    Perhaps the world had existed only in each one of those children.

    All around Saryon was stillness and silence. He could hear his own
heart beating, like muffled  hammer blows, and he  knew that for  him,
the world existed  now only in  Mosiah, in Andon,  in the children  of
that small  farming  village  who had  watched  their  homes  burning.
Drawing a deep breath, Saryon summoned the magic.

    The catalyst felt  it flow  into his  body, filling  him with  the
Enchantment and, at the same time, demanding an outlet. Slowly he rose
from the chair  where he had  been sitting and  came forward to  stand
before Joram.

    "Place the weapon on  the floor before me,"  Saryon tried to  say,
but the words were inaudible.

    Obeying more by  instinct than because  he understood, Joram  laid
the weapon at the catalyst's feet.

    As he knelt for the  Ritual of the Dawn,  as he knelt for  Evening
Prayers, as he  knelt before  the Almin  who was  far away,  attending
services at  the Font,  Saryon knelt  on the  stone floor  before  the
sword. Reaching out a trembling hand, he grasped hold of the hilt. His
flesh shriveled as he touched it; he feared it might burn him, but the
magical alloy had already  grown cold and rigid.  The bitter chill  of
the iron  shot through  his arm,  striking a  blow to  his heart.  But
Saryon held  the sword  fast, exalted  by a  strength of  spirit  that
overcame the weakness of the flesh.

    With a soft sigh, Saryon repeated the prayer that accompanied  the
granting of Life and felt the  magic flow from the world, through  his
body, into the dead hunk of man-begotten metal.

    In his hand,  the sword began  to glow again,  this time with  the
white radiance  of  the molten  darkstone.  Brighter and  brighter  it
shone, appearing hot enough to melt  through the very rock upon  which
the blade rested,  but it was  still cool to  the touch; the  catalyst
still held the hilt in his hand.

    He couldn't let go! He couldn't close the conduit he had opened to
the weapon! Like a Living being, the sword sucked the magic from  him,
drained him dry, then  used him to continue  to absorb magic from  all
around it.  Gasping for  breath, feeling  himself growing  weaker  and
weaker, Saryon tried to wrench his  hand free from the weapon, but  he
couldn't move it.

    "Joram!" he whispered, "help me!"

    But Joram was staring  at the sword, its  cold, white glow was  so
bright it seemed the moon had  escaped the storm clouds and come  here
to rule.

    Fainting, Saryon sank onto the floor, his mind in a stupor as  the
magic surged into him, through him, and  out of him with a force  that
was carrying his own  Life force with it.  Darkness closed around  him
even as the light grew brighter and brighter.

    And then strong arms lifted him and strong hands were dragging him
across the cold floor,  propping him up against  something he was  too
sick and dizzy to recognize. He could not see, a brilliant white light
blinded him. Where was  the sword? The white  light was far from  him,
halfway across the cavern it seemed, yet it also seemed to him that he
still held  the cold  metal in  his  hand and  would always  hold  it,
forever and ever.

    Outside, Saryon  could hear  the  wind again,  and feel  its  cool
breath upon his cheek. He must  be lying near the cavern entrance,  he
thought dimly,  and then  the sound  of the  wind was  swallowed by  a
hissing noise. Opening  his eyes in  horror, he saw  Joram plunge  the
cold,  burning  sword  into  the  water  trough.  A  cloud  of  white,
foul-smelling steam  rose up  around  him, like  a ghost  fleeing  its
lifeless body.

    Saryon closed his eyes  again, his brain too  weary to absorb  any
more. The  light,  the  fog, Joram's  white  face,  everything  merged
together into a swirling, suffocating  vortex, Nausea swept over  him,
his stomach  clenched. He  was going  to be  sick. Slumping  down,  he
pressed his fevered cheek against the cold stone, longing for a breath
of fresh air.

    Above the hissing of the boiling, bubbling water, he heard Joram's
voice whispering an almost reverent invocation.

    "The Darksword..."

    9

    Simkin's Deal The journey back from the forge through the gray  of
early morning was  one of furtive  stumbling, bone-chilling cold,  and
mind-numbing exhaustion. The gale had blown itself out. The wind died,
the rain ceased. The only sounds  in the still-sleeping town were  the
dripping rainwater from  the eaves  of the houses  and the  half-awake
bark of some unusually dedicated house  dog. But the cold was  bitter.
Even the prison began to seem a haven of peace and warmth to Saryon as
he staggered through the strange,  dark streets, supported by  Joram's
arm. With him as  well, the young man  carried the Darksword,  pressed
close against his body, hidden beneath his cloak.

    Both Joram and  Saryon were  worn out, drained  by excitement  and
terror. But  now  rose  up  to haunt  them  the  sudden  fear-all  but
forgotten in the turmoil of the sword's creation-that something  might
have gone wrong. Had  the guard awakened  and decided to  investigate?
Had Mosiah been caught? Was Blachloch  sitting, waiting for them as  a
cat waits patiently for  the mouse? These fears  grew as the two  drew
nearer and nearer the prison. When  they reached the street where  the
building stood, both stopped, shrinking  into the shadows, storing  at
it intently before they dared go further.

    All seemed quiet. No  light burned in the  guard's window as  must
have been the case had he been  aroused. No light shone in the  prison
window.

    "Everything's all  right,"  said Saryon  with  a sigh  of  relief,
starting forward.

    "It could be a trap," cautioned Joram, his hand on his sword,  "At
this point, I don't  care," said the catalyst  wearily, but he  stayed
with Joram.

    Gripping his sword clumsily, not at  all certain what he would  do
with it if attacked,  Joram continued down the  street. For him,  too,
the exhilaration was fading, leaving  him feeling unusually tired  and
drained. The old dark despondency was rapidly claiming him.

    Nothing had turned out  as he had hoped.  The sword was heavy  and
awkward. He felt no surge of power when he held it, only an aching  in
his wrist and arm from the unaccustomed weight. He had tried to  grind
an edge to it, but the hands that could be so delicate performing  his
"magic" had proved clumsy  and unskilled in this.  He had botched  the
job, he feared. The blade was uneven and marred, not curved and  sharp
as those he had seen in the ancient texts. He was a fool to think this
crude, ugly weapon could ever overcome Blachloch's wizardry, and so on
and on his mind turned,  spiraling downward. The blackness was  coming
over him; he  recognized the symptoms.  Well, what did  it matter,  he
thought darkly. Let it come. He had achieved his goal, such as it was.

    With a last, furtive glance at the guard's window across the  way,
and seeing no  sign of  movement, Joram  pressed softly  on the  door.
Opening it, he motioned Saryon to come inside.

    Mosiah slept sitting at  the table, his head  buried in his  arms.
Hearing movement, he started up, partially rising out of the chair  in
sleepy alarm.

    "What-Father!" The young man came  forward to catch the  catalyst,
whose knees were giving way beneath him. "My god, you look awful! What
happened? Where's Joram? Is everything all right?"

    Saryon could only nod wearily as Mosiah led him to his bed.  "I'll
get you some wine..."

    "No," Saryon  murmured. "I  couldn't  keep it  down. I  just  need
rest..."

    Helping the  spent catalyst  lie down,  Mosiah covered  the  man's
shivering body with a worn blanket, then turned as Joram shut the door
behind him.

    "Saryon looks terrible. Is  he hurt? You  don't look much  better.
What happened?"

    "Nothing. We're fine, both  of us. Just  tired. Did everything  go
all right here?" Joram spoke  with obvious effort. Seeing Mosiah  nod,
be walked to his bed and, lifting the straw mattress, pulled something
from beneath his cloak and slid it underneath.

    The words  were  on  Mosiah's  lips  to  ask  what  it  was,  but,
recognizing the symptoms of the impending melancholia on Joram's  grim
face, he thought better of it. He  wasn't certain he wanted to see  it
anyway.

    "Everything was quiet  here," he  answered instead.  "No one  even
walked down the street that I saw. The storm was fierce. It didn't end
until early this morning. I-I must  have dozed off when the wind  quit
howling..."

    Mosiah  quit  talking  when   it  became  apparent  Joram   wasn't
listening. Casting himself on the bed, the young man stared at nothing
with unseeing eyes. Saryon had  already fallen into a restless  sleep.
His body twitched and  jerked. Once he  moaned and muttered  something
incoherent. Feeling alone and disquieted, a strange, unreasoning  fear
growing within him, Mosiah was walking  softly across the room when  a
whispering voice from outside made every nerve tingle.

    "I say, open the door!"

    A cold, shivering  sensation flashed  down Mosiah's  spine at  the
sound of an unusual tenseness in the usually carefree voice.  Glancing
swiftly at Joram, Mosiah flung the door open and Simkin darted inside.

    "Shut it quickly,  there's a  good boy.  I trust  I wasn't  seen."
Slipping to the window, keeping in the shadows, Simkin peered outside.
The foolish, negligent look was gone,  the skin beneath the beard  was
pale, the lips white.

    "All quiet," he murmured. "Well, that won't last long."

    "What's the matter? What's gone wrong?"

    "Rather bad news, I'm afraid," Simkin said, turning to Mosiah with
a strained imitation of his playful smile. "I've just been to check on
the guard-see if he  spent a restful night.  He did. Very restful,  if
you take my meaning."

    "Well, I don't," Mosiah said irritably. "What's the matter?"

    "You see,"  began Simkin,  biting his  lip. "It's  like this.  The
great lout has  actually been inconsiderate  enough to go  and die  on
us."

    "Die!" Mosiah's mouth sagged  open. For an  instant he was  struck
dumb, and could  do nothing  but stare  at Simkin.  Then, he  stumbled
across the room, "Joram!" he whispered urgently, shaking him,  "Joram!
Please! It's urgent, I-we need you! Joram!"

    Slowly Joram tore his gaze  from the ceiling. Mosiah could  almost
see him struggling to  the surface of the  blackness that washed  over
him. "What?"

    "The guard, Simkin's killed him!"

    Joram's brown eyes opened  wide. Sitting up,  he stared coldly  at
Simkin. "You were supposed to just drug him."

    "That's precisely what I did," said Simkin, hurt.

    "What did you give him?"

    "Henbane," Simkin muttered.

    "Henbane?" repeated Mosiah in horror. "But that's nightshade! It's
poisonous."

    "To chickens," Simkin  remarked with a  sniff. "I had  no idea  it
would affect louts, though  he was a  foul sort of  fellow now that  I
think of it."

    Mosiah sat down at the end  of Joram's bed, trying to think.  "Are
you sure he's uh-uh-dead? Maybe he's just a heavy sleeper..."

    "Not unless he goes  cold and limp as  a mackerel and sleeps  with
his eyes wide open. No, no, he's quite dead, I assure you. The skin of
ale was still full, lying beside  him, Probably keeled over after  the
first mouthful. I wonder, come  to think of it,  if I didn't get  that
potion mixed up with one from the Duchess de Longeville? As I  recall,
they found her second husband in much the same state-"

    "Shut up!" Mosiah cried tersely. "What can we do? Joram? We've got
to think," He wiped chill sweat from his face. "I know! We'll hide the
body. Take it into the woods..."

    Joram said nothing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his head  sank
into his hand, the black shadows gathering about him.

    "That's an  excellent plan,  dear boy,"  said Simkin,  looking  at
Mosiah with admiration. "Truly, I'm quite impressed. But"-he raised  a
hand as Mosiah leaped  to his feet-"it won't  work. I wasn't...  um...
alone, you see, when  I made my little  discovery. One of  Blachloch's
henchmen, Drumlor by name, was keeping me company along with this skin
of remarkably fine wine."  Simkin heaved a sigh.  "I'm afraid he  took
the demise of  his compatriot rather  hard. Hotfooted it  back to  the
warlock's. Quite amazing how fast he could run considering how drunk-"

    "You mean Blachloch knows about this?"

    "If he doesn't now, I should say he will in a matter of moments."

    "Damn you!" Jumping up, Mosiah leaped at Simkin, catching hold  of
him by his lace-covered lapels and hurling him back against the  wall.
"Damn you for a fool! What do we do now?"

    "Well, to me it would seem advantageous to wake up the  slumbering
bald party there,"  replied Simkin,  smoothing out  his crumpled  lace
with injured dignity. "Though how he can sleep through your  screaming
is beyond me. Then we  have to rouse our dark  friend from his fit  of
sulks..."

    "I'm all right. Wake  up Saryon," said  Joram. Seeing Mosiah  take
another step toward Simkin, he stood  up. "Stop it! Both of you,  calm
down. We've done nothing wrong."

    "We haven't?" Simkin appeared dubious.

    "No. Go on,  Mosiah! Wake up  the catalyst. We've  got to get  our
stories straight..."

    Shaking his  head,  Mosiah  hurried  over to  the  bed  where  the
catalyst was sleeping fitfully. "Father!"  Bending over him, he  shook
him by the shoulder. "Father!"

    "Now," said Joram coolly, "The catalyst and I-"

    His voice died.

    Turning around, his hand still on the catalyst's shoulder,  Mosiah
saw the black-cloaked warlock materialize  in the center of the  room,
his hands clasped before him as was customary, his eyes hidden by  the
overhanging black cowl.

    "You and the  catalyst what, young  man?" said the  expressionless
voice.

    "-have been in all night," Joram continued coolly. "You could  ask
your guard,  but  that  might  be  difficult  now  unless  you  are  a
Necromancer."

    "Yes, I  figured Simkin  would  tell you  of the  guard's  death,"
Blachloch said, glancing at the bearded young man.

    "Frightful shock to me, I assure you," remarked Simkin.  Snatching
the orange silk from  the air, he dabbed  delicately at his  forehead.
"I'm quite unstrung,  as the Baron  of Esock said  when he  mistakenly
transformed himself into a mandolin . What do you suppose he died  of?
" Simkin asked  casually. "The  guard, that is.  The Baron  died in  a
rather freak accident. The Baroness, a  largish sort of woman, sat  on
his case. Smashed him to splinters, but he went out with a song. As to
your guard, he was his usual loutish self when I left him last  night.
Perhaps he suffocated." Simkin  held the orange silk  to his nose.  "I
know he had that effect on me."

    "He was  poisoned," said  Blachloch, ignoring  Simkin, his  hooded
head turned to Joram. His eyes  might well have been fingers,  probing
the young man's  brain. "So, you  were here all  night? What were  you
doing, playing in the firepit?"

    Glancing down  at  his  soot-blackened  clothes  and  skin,  Joram
shrugged. "I didn't  bother to  wash when I  got home  from the  forge
yesterday."

    Without a  word,  his hands  still  folded before  him,  Blachloch
turned and  walked  over to  where  Mosiah had  finally  succeeded  in
rousing the catalyst.

    "You were in all night, too, Father?" the warlock said.

    "Y-yes." Saryon peered  up at the  black-robed Enforcer,  blinking
dazedly. Though half-asleep and completely  unable to figure out  what
was going  on, he  could  feel danger  crackling  in the  air.  Trying
desperately to shake off his drowsiness, he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

    Blachloch reached  down and  snatched  the blanket  from  Saryon's
body. "The hem of  your robe is wet,  Catalyst. And covered with  soot
and mud as well."

    "The chimney leaks," said Mosiah sullenly.

    Blachloch smiled. "Grant me Life, Catalyst," he said softly.

    Saryon shuddered. "I cannot," he  replied in a low voice,  staring
at the floor. "I have no energy. I... spent a bad night..."  Realizing
the irony  of his  words, and  having the  terrible feeling  that  the
warlock was  aware  of  it  too, Saryon  paled,  waiting  in  uncaring
exhaustion for whatever might come next.

    Nothing came. Turning  away from  the catalyst,  Blachloch cast  a
final glance at them all and, without saying another word, vanished.

    The four stared at each other in silence for long moments,  afraid
to talk, afraid even to move.

    "He's  gone,"  Saryon  said   heavily.  His  muscles  ached   with
weariness. His numb brain, unable to cope with whatever had  occurred,
kept urging him to ignore everything and go back to sleep. Shaking his
head firmly, the  catalyst staggered  to his feet,  crossed the  chill
floor, and plunged his head and face into a washbowl of icy water.

    "How long do you  suppose he was here  before we knew it?"  Mosiah
asked in a strained, tense voice.

    "What does it matter?" Joram  replied with an uncaring shrug.  "He
knows we're lying."

    "Then, why didn't he do something!" Mosiah cried, his taut  nerves
snapping. "What kind of game is he playing-"

    "The kind of game you're losing  already if you don't get hold  of
yourself," Simkin  said  languidly. "Look  at  me!" He  held  out  his
face-covered hand. "There. Not a  flutter. And I discovered the  body.
Speaking of the body, I wonder what  jolly thing they plan to do  with
it. If they dump it in the river, I, for one, am not taking a bath for
a year-"

    "Body!" Saryon's eyes widened.

    "Explain things  to  Briar Rose,  will  you, dear  boy?  I  really
couldn't go  through it  again. Quite  fatiguing. By  the  way"-Simkin
asked in bored tones, glancing across at Joram-did everything go  well
last night?"

    Joram did not answer; lapsing into despondency once more, He  sank
back onto the bed.

    "I say, you might at least tell me what you were doing, after  alt
the trouble I went to-"

    "Murdering guards!" Mosiah snapped viciously.

    "Well, if  you  want to  put  it  in that  crude  fashion.  Still,
I-Almin's blood, you lout!"

    This exclamation was occasioned by  the door to the prison  flying
open, nearly knocking Simkin  over. Casting a  sneering glance at  the
irate young man, one of Blachloch's henchmen stepped inside as  Simkin
was trying to go out.

    "I say, do move to one side  or the other," Simkin said, the  silk
to his nose. "I can't go through you. Well, I suppose I could, but you
wouldn't like it much..."

    "You're not going anywhere. Orders. I came to tell you. Not till-"

    "Oh, no.  Really,  this won't  do  at all,"  Simkin  said.  Coolly
stepping past  the guard,  he gave  the  man a  wide berth,  his  nose
wrinkling. "I'm certain you're mistaken. Those orders do not apply  to
me, now, do they? Only to these three."

    "Well, I-" the henchemen stammered, frowning.

    "There, there." Simkin patted the man on the shoulder as he walked
out the door. "Don't tax your brain so, old chap. You're liable to  go
into a fit."  With a final  flourish of orange  silk, he glanced  back
into the prison. "Farewell, dear friends. Delighted to have been  able
to help, I'm away."

    "Help!" Mosiah muttered as the  door shut behind the gaudily  clad
figure, the henchman pacing back and forth outside.

    Going over  to the  window,  Mosiah saw  the  young man  make  his
mincing way across the street to  the house where the guard had  died.
Two of Blachloch's men  were removing the body,  and Simkin fell  into
step beside them, holding his orange silk over his nose and mouth.  At
the same time, several  more guards took up  positions in the  window,
keeping their eyes upon  the prison. Slamming his  hand on the  window
ledge in disgust,  Mosiah turned  away. "If  it hadn't  been for  that
buffoon and his nightshade, everything would be all right. He might as
well have turned us over to Blachloch himself! Maybe you'll believe me
about him, Joram. Now that it's too late."

    Joram lay back  on his bed  without answering or  even giving  any
indication he had heard. His hands  beneath his head, he stared up  at
the ceiling.

    Wiping the  water from  his face  with the  sleeves of  his  robe,
Saryon crossed to the window and looked out to see Simkin marching  at
the head  of what  had  become an  impromptu funeral  procession,  the
guards following  behind with  their grim  burden and  grimmer  faces.
Dabbing at  his eyes,  Simkin  called mournful  greetings to  the  few
townspeople who were up and stirring. No one answered; they stared  at
the body in fearful perplexity, then hurried off, whispering  together
and shaking their heads.

    Stupidity? Saryon's  mind  went back  to  the forest  outside  the
village of Walren, the forest where he had first met Simkin.

    "It is a  deep game  we play, brother,"  the young  man had  said.
"Deep and dangerous."

    What was Simkin's game?

    The news of the  guard's murder spread  rapidly through the  small
community.  The  people  flitted  from  house  to  house,  talking  in
frightened,  subdued  voices.  Blachloch's   henchmen  seemed  to   be
everywhere, roaming the  streets with  grim, eager looks,  as if  they
knew what  was  going  to  happen and  were  looking  forward  to  it.
Eventually, the townspeople went to work at their various labors,  but
nothing much got  done. Most people  left their jobs  early. Even  the
smithy shut down the forge before nightfall, glad to be going home.

    It had been a long day  for the smith, long and unsettling.  First
Blachloch's  men  had  arrived,   poking  around,  overturning   this,
upsetting that, and asking questions.

    "Was someone working last night?"

    "Yes."

    "Who?"

    "I don't know offhand."  This with a  shrug of massive  shoulders.
"One er two of the 'prentices,  mayhap. They're behind in their  work.
We're all behind and getting behinder  when we're stopped and made  to
answer stupid questions."

    Finally, Blachloch's flunkies  left, to be  replaced by  Blachloch
himself. The  smith wasn't  surprised. A  middle-aged man  with  grown
sons, the smith was  shrewd and observant,  if somewhat hotheaded.  He
had the reputation of bearing no love for the warlock; the raid on the
village filled  him with  grief  and anger.  He heartily  approved  of
Andon's determination  to  starve rather  than  eat bread  laced  with
blood. He advocated taking stronger  measures against the warlock,  in
fact, and would have if the old man, fearing harsh reprisals, had  not
pleaded with him to remain calm.

    The smith had  agreed reluctantly,  and then only  because he  was
storing up a cache of his own weapons for use when the time came. Just
when that time was going to arrive, he wasn't certain, but he had  the
feeling it  wasn't far  off,  judging from  Andon's worried  face  and
certain mysterious occurrences he'd noticed around the forge.

    "Did someone work last night?" Blachloch asked.

    "Yes."

    "Who?"

    "I already said, I don't know," the smith growled, "Could it  have
been Joram?"

    "Could have. Could have been any of the 'prentices. Ask them."

    All these questions  and more the  smith answered shortly  without
stopping his work,  the ringing  blows of his  hammer punctuating  his
words with such force  it seemed he might  have the warlock  stretched
out upon his anvil. But he answered the questions nonetheless, keeping
his eyes averted  from the  black-robed figure.  As much  as he  hated
Blachloch, the smith feared him still more.

    Watching him out of the corner of his eye, the smith followed  the
warlock's movements  through  the  forge  as  Blachloch  searched  the
premises. He touched  little, just  sent his  penetrating glance  into
every shadow, every crevice  and corner. Finally, he  came to a  stop.
Using a booted foot, he sorted idly through a pile of refuse in a  far
corner until, bending down, he picked something up.

    "What's this?"  he asked,  turning the  object over  in his  hand,
studying it in a casual manner, his face expressionless as always.

    "Crucible," grunted the smith, continuing his hammering.

    "What is its use?"

    "Melting ore."

    "Does that residue  look at all  odd to you?"  Blachloch held  the
crucible out to  the smith,  holding it in  the light  of the  glowing
forge.

    "No," said the  smith, glancing at  it nonchalantly, then  looking
back at  his work.  But his  gaze darted  to it  once again,  when  he
thought the warlock wasn't  watching. Catching Blachloch's stare,  the
smith flushed and fixed his eyes once more upon his work, the force of
his hammer blows increasing.

    Crucible in hand,  the warlock  gazed at the  smith intently.  The
eyes within the folds of the black hood gleamed red in the fire of the
forge. "No more night work in the forge, Master Smith," he said coolly
as he slowly  disappeared into the  air as effortlessly  as the  smoke
rising up the chimney.

    Recalling both the words  and the look,  the smith shivered  again
now, just as  he had shivered  this morning. Possesesed  of a  certain
amount of magic himself, though not as much as others, he was overawed
by the power of the warlock and even more by his intelligence. It  was
a dangerous combination, he thought,  and his hidden cache of  weapons
suddenly appeared to him puny and useless.

    "Warlock could turn them  to a heap o'  molten iron, just as  they
started out," he was  saying to himself  gloomily, preparing to  leave
for the night, when he heard a noise.

    "What's that?" he called out hesitantly, thinking that it might be
Blachloch returning. "Who's there?"

    There came  a  tremendous  crash,  followed by  an  oath.  Then  a
plaintive voice rose up from the depths of the shadows in the back  of
the cavern. "I  say, I'm in  rather a fix  here. Could you  give me  a
hand? Not literally, mind you,"  the voice added hastily.  "Disgusting
trick of the Marquis d'Winter. Same  old joke, year after year.  Yanks
it off at  the wrist.  I've told  the Emperor  he'd stop  doing it  if
nobody laughed, but-"

    "Simkin?" said  the smith  in astonishment,  hurrying through  the
forge to  the  back  of  the  cavern where  he  found  the  young  man
attempting unsuccessfully to extricate himself from beneath a mound of
tools and implements. "What are you doing, lad?"

    "Shhh," whispered Simkin. "No one's to know I'm here..."

    "A bit late for that, ain't  it?" asked the smith grimly.  "You've
just waked up half the town by now-"

    "It wasn't my  fault," said Simkin  peevishly, casting a  scathing
glance at the pile  of tools. "I was-Oh,  never mind," He lowered  his
voice. "Was Blachloch here today?"

    "Yes." growled the smith, glancing about nervously.

    "Did he find  anything, take  anything? It's quite  urgent that  I
know." Simkin looked at the smith anxiously.

    The smith hesitated, frowning. "Well," he said after a moment,  "I
suppose it won't  hurt to tell  you. He  didn't keep it  a secret.  He
found a crucible."

    "Crucible?" Simkin  raised  an eyebrow.  "That's  all? I  mean,  I
suppose you have lots of them, lying about."

    "Yeah, we do. That's  what 'e found, though,  and 'e took it  with
'im. Now, you  best come  out the  front with  me. How'd  you get  in,
without my seein' you?" the smith asked as an afterthought, staring at
Simkin suspiciously.

    "Oh,  I'm  easily  overlooked."  The  young  man  waved  his  hand
negligently, his bright clothes glistening brilliantly in the light of
the banked forge  fire. "About this  crucible. There wasn't  something
odd with it, was there?"

    The smith's frown deepened. Snapping  his lips shut, he  marshaled
Simkin toward the front of the cavern.

    "Some sort of strange something in it, for example," the young man
continued nonchalantly, tripping over a mold.

    "I wouldn't know," said the smith coldly when they finally reached
the front of the cavern. "An'  you kin tell whoever's interested  that
there's to be no more night work.  Not for a long time. Maybe  never."
The smith shook his head gloomily.

    "Night work?" repeated Simkin  with a shrug  and a strange  smile.
"Ah, I think you're  wrong about that. There'll  be one more piece  of
night work-but it needn't  concern you," he  said reassuringly to  the
startled smith, who-glancing at him grimly-shut the door to the  forge
and sealed it with a magical spell.

    10

    The Fall of the Cards The Chamber of Discretion was a one-way-only
communication device.  Bishop Vanya  could contact  his minions.  They
could not contact him. Thus the early designers made certain that  the
minion remained under the power of his master. It did have a drawback,
however, and  this was  that  the master  could  not be  contacted  on
matters of urgency or those that required immediate instruction.  This
drawback did  not bother  Vanya  overmuch, the  Bishop being  in  such
complete control that he deemed it unlikely any such situation  should
arise.

    He was  somewhat disagreeably  startled, therefore,  to enter  the
Chamber of Discretion  on this  late fall  evening and  feel the  very
darkness around him humming and vibrating with energy. Though  minions
could not contact him,  the Chamber was so  sensitive to the minds  of
those it touched that any  of them, concentrating their thoughts  upon
their master, could make him aware of their need.

    Annoyed, Vanya sat in the chair.  Closing his eyes, he calmly  and
deliberately  cleansed  his  mind  of  any  obtrusive  or  obstructing
thoughts, leaving it clear and open to impressions. One formed  almost
immediately. An ominous feeling of foreboding oppressed the Bishop. He
had been expecting-no, dreading-this for  some time now, he  realized,
"I am here," Vanya said  to the impression in  his mind. "What do  you
want? We have not spoken in some time. I assumed everything was  going
well."

    "Everything is not going well," the voice replied, responding with
such immediacy that Vanya knew it had been waiting for him. "Joram has
discovered darkstone."

    It was well the minion could not see the change that came over the
master at  this  point, or  his  confidence might  have  been  shaken.
Vanya's heavy-jowled  face sagged;  the hand  that had  been  crawling
spiderlike upon  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  irritable  restlessness
suddenly twitched, the fingers curling  in upon themselves, forming  a
tight ball. How cold this place  was. He had never noticed it  before.
His heavy robes were inadequate...

    "Are you there?"

    "Yes," Vanya replied, licking his dry lips, "I thought perhaps you
had made a mistake in what you said. I was waiting for you to  correct
yourself."

    "If a mistake has been made, I  haven't been the one to make  it,"
the voice in the Bishop's head retorted. "I told you the ancient texts
existed here."

    "Impossible. According to the records, they were all accounted for
and destroyed."

    "The records are wrong.  Not that it matters  now. The damage  has
been done. He knows of the darkstone, and not only that, but with  the
help of your catalyst, he has learned to forge it!"

    Vanya closed  his eyes.  The darkness  whirled around  him. For  a
startling moment, he actually felt  his chair begin to slide,  tilting
him backward. Grasping hold of the armrests in desperation, he  forced
himself to relax and consider the matter calmly. No good would come of
panic.  There  was  no  need   for  panic.  This  was  an   unexpected
development, but one that could be handled.

    "Waiting for me to correct a mistake again?"

    "No,"  said  Vanya  coldly,  "I  am  merely  considering  all  the
ramifications of this terrible occurrence."

    "Well, here's one you  may not have considered.  Now that we  have
the darkstone, Sharakan and the  Technologists could win this war.  No
need to maintain the balance of power. Balance becomes meaningless  if
we hold the scales in our hands."

    "An interesting  thought,  my  friend, and  one  worthy  of  you,"
remarked Vanya dryly, the  slow fire of anger  burning away his  fear.
"But I remind  you that there  are matters working  here of which  you
have no conception. You are  just one card in  the deck, so to  speak.
No, this alters  our plans, but  only slightly. It  is imperative,  of
course, that I have  the boy immediately now,  plus whatever it is  he
has created out of the darkstone. You must send me that fool catalyst,
as well, I suppose. What on earth did you do to the man?" Vanya  found
vent for his frustration. "He had the spine of a brittle twig when  he
left here. You were supposed to break him, not strengthen it!"

    "Twig! You have mistaken him as you have mistaken other things. As
for sending the boy  to you, that  is risky. Let me  kill him and  the
catalyst-"

    "No!" The word exploded from Vanya. His pudgy bands clenched  over
the armrest, white dents appearing in the region where a thinner man's
knuckles might have been. "No,"  Vanya repeated, swallowing. "The  boy
must not be killed. Is that completely understood? Disobey me in  this
and you will think mutation a beneficent fate compared to yours!"

    "You have to catch me first, Bishop, and I remind you that you are
very far away..."

    Vanya drew a  deep, quivering breath.  "The boy is  the Prince  of
Merilon," he said through clenched teeth.

    There was  a  moment's silence,  then  a mental  shrug.  "All  the
better. The Prince is supposed to be dead, I will simply correct  what
I assume was another of your mistakes-"

    "Not a mistake," Vanya said, his mouth parched. "I tell you again,
the boy must not die! If you  insist on knowing the reason, I ask  you
to remember this-the Prophecy."

    The silence  was  longer, more  profound  this time,  Vanya  could
almost bear its thoughts, whispering about him like the wings of bats.

    "Very well," the voice said finally, coldly, "But it will be  more
difficult and dangerous,  especially now that  he has darkstone.  This
was not in our original bargain. My price goes up."

    "You  will  be  compensated  according  to  your  deserts,"  Vanya
remarked. "Act quickly, before he becomes  fully aware how to use  the
stone. And bring him personally," the Bishop added as an afterthought.
"There are certain  matters I wish  to discuss with  you, your  reward
among them."

    "Of course I'll have to bring him personally," the voice returned.
"What else am I to  do? Rely on your  spineless catalyst? I will  come
through the usual channels. Look for me when you see me."

    "It must be soon!" Vanya said,  endeavoring with all his power  to
keep his thoughts calm. "I will contact you tomorrow night."

    "I may or may not answer," replied the voice. "This matter must be
handled delicately."

    The communication ended. The Chamber was silent.

    A trickle  of  sweat  ran  down the  Bishop's  tonsured  head  and
trickled into the collar of his  robe. Pale, quivering with anger  and
fear, he sat in the Chamber for many hours, staring unseeing into  the
darkness.

    For there will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will
live, who will die again but live again. And when he returns, he  will
hold in his hand the destruction of the world...

    11

    Saryon's Turn  "Listen, Saryon,"  said  Joram in  low,  persuasive
tones, "it  will be  simple."  Sitting beside  the catalyst,  he  slid
closer still, resting his hand upon his arm. "You go to Blachloch. You
tell him that you cannot rest, you cannot sleep. You are so  horrified
by what I have done and what I made you do that you think you might go
mad."

    "I am not a good liar," Saryon murmured, shaking his head.

    "Would it  really be  a  lie?" Joram  asked, a  bitter  half-smile
lighting his dark eyes, "On the  contrary, I think you could be  quite
convincing."

    The catalyst did not  answer, nor did he  raise his gaze from  the
table where the  two of them  sat. A fat,  almost obscene autumn  moon
grinned down from the clear black sky. Shining through the window,  it
sucked all color and life into its bulging cheeks, leaving  everything
a stark, bloodless gray.  Bathed in the moonlight,  the two sat  close
together at the table  beneath the window,  talking in hushed  voices,
Joram's watchful gaze divided between  the guards in the house  across
the street and Mosiah, sleeping restlessly on a cot in a dark corner.

    At the sound of voices, Mosiah stirred and muttered in his  sleep,
causing Joram to grip  the catalyst's arm  in silent warning.  Neither
said a word until Mosiah had drifted off again, throwing his arm  over
his eyes in  his sleep as  the moonlight crept  stealthily across  the
floor and up the cot to examine and gloat over his pale face.

    "And then what must I do?" asked Saryon.

    "Tell him you will take him to me. You will help him apprehend  me
and"-Joram's voice lowered-"the  Darksword. You will  lead him to  the
forge, where I will be working, and there, we will have him."

    Saryon shut his eyes, a shudder convulsing his body. "What do  you
mean-have him?"

    "What do you think I mean, Catalyst?" Impatiently, Joram  withdrew
his hand and leaned back in  his chair, glancing again at the  guards,
whose shadows could be seen against  the background of a blazing  fire
in the house opposite. "We have  talked about this before. Once he  is
drained of his magic, he will be helpless. You can open a Corridor and
call the Duuk-tsarith. No  doubt they have  been waiting eagerly  many
years to get their hands on one who is a disgrace to their Order."  He
shrugged, "You will be a hero, Catalyst."

    Saryon sighed and  clasped his hands  together upon the  tabletop,
his fingers digging  painfully into  his flesh, "What  about you?"  he
asked Joram,  his  gaze  going  to the  young  man.  The  stern  face,
reflected in the moonlight, looked almost skull-like, "What about me?"
Joram asked coolly,  staring out  the window,  the half-smile  playing
about his lips.

    "A Corridor will be open, the Duuk-tsarith will be there. I  could
turn you over to them, as I was instructed to do by my superior."

    "But you won't,  will you-Saryon?" Joram  said without looking  at
him. In  the corner,  Mosiah  moaned and  turned fitfully,  trying  to
wriggle out from beneath the moon's gleeful stare. "You won't. I  give
you Blachloch  and you  give me  my  freedom. You  need not  fear  me,
Catalyst, I have no such ambition as Blachloch. I do not intend to use
my power to take over the world. I simply want back what is rightfully
mine. I will go  to Merilon and,  with the help of  this sword I  have
forged, I will find it!"

    Watching him, Saryon saw the young mans face soften for a  moment,
becoming as wistful and  longing as a child's  gazing at some  bright,
jeweled bauble. Pity surged through the catalyst. He recalled the dark
stories he  had heard  of  Joram's youth,  of  his insane  mother.  He
thought of the hard life the young man had led, the constant  struggle
for survival,  the need  to hide  the  fact that  he was  truly  Dead.
Saryon, too, knew what  it was like  to be weak  and helpless in  this
world of wizards. Memories came back to him-the longing to be able  to
ride the wings of the wind, to create beauty and wonder with a wave of
the hand, to shape  stone into towers of  grace and usefulness...  Now
Joram had  this power,  only it  was  reversed. He  had the  power  to
destroy, not create. And all  he wanted to buy  with it was a  child's
dream.

    "You will undoubtedly be a hero." Joram's voice came to Saryon  as
if out of this dream. "You can  return to the Font, go back and  crawl
under your rock again. I trust your  failure as far as bringing me  to
justice will be  overlooked. They can  always try to  apprehend me  in
Merilon. If they dare..."

    Joram was  silent  a moment,  then  he returned  to  reality,  the
wistful, childlike face hardening, becoming  the face of the  Sorcerer
who had murdered the  overseer with a stone.  "When the warlock is  in
the forge, I will attack him with the Darksword and absorb his magic-"

    "You  hope,"  Saryon  retorted,  angry  because  he  was  suddenly
discovering he was  beginning to care  for this young  man. "You  have
only the vaguest  idea of the  sword's power. You  know nothing  about
wielding such a weapon."

    "I don't need to be  skilled in swordplay," Joram said  irritably.
"We're not  going  to kill  him,  after all.  When  I attack  and  the
Darksword begins to  draw off  his magic,  you must  attack also,  and
drain him of his Life."

    Saryon shook  his head.  "That's too  dangerous. I've  never  been
trained for this..."

    "You have no choice, Catalyst!"  Joram said, his teeth  clenching,
his hand gripping Saryon's arm again. "Simkin says that Blachloch  has
found the crucible! If he doesn't already know about the darkstone, he
soon will. Do you want to make Darkswords for him?"

    The catalyst put his head in his trembling hands. Slowly releasing
his arm, Joram  sat back  in his chair  again, nodding  to himself  in
satisfaction.

    "How can we get out of here?" Saryon asked, raising a haggard face
and glancing around the prison.

    "Run to the guards. Tell them you were asleep, and when you  woke,
you discovered I was gone. Demand that they take you to see Blachloch.
In the confusion, I'll slip out."

    "But how? They'll be searching for you! It's-"

    "-my concern, Catalyst," Joram said coldly. "You worry about  your
part. Stall Blachloch for as long as  you can, to give me time to  get
there."

    "Stall! What should I-"

    "Faint! Be sick on him! I  don't know! It shouldn't be  difficult.
You look  as  though you  could  do both  right  now anyway."  With  a
scathing glance  at the  catalyst,  Joram stood  up and  began  pacing
restlessly about the room.

    "I am not  as weak  as you consider  me, young  man," Saryon  said
softly, "I should  never have agreed  to assist you  in bringing  this
weapon of darkness  into the  world. I did,  however, and  now I  must
accept responsibility for  my actions. I  will do what  you ask of  me
this night. I will  help bring this evil  warlock to justice. But  not
because I will be  a hero, not  to enable me to  go back," Saryon  was
silent a moment,  then, drawing a  deep breath, he  continued. "I  can
never go  back.  I  know that  now.  There  is nothing  for  me  there
anymore."

    Joram had  stopped  walking  and was  regarding  Saryon  silently,
intently. "And you will let me go..."

    "Yes, but not because I fear you or your sword."

    "Then why?" Joram asked, with a slight sneer.

    "Exactly," Saryon murmured, "Why? I've asked myself often  enough.
I could tell you... many reasons. That our lives are bound up together
in some strange way, that I knew  this the first time I saw you,  that
this goes back to a time in my life before you were even born. I could
tell you this." He shook his head. "I could tell you about a druid who
counseled me. I could  tell you about  a baby I  held... It all  seems
tied together somehow, and  it doesn't make sense.  I can see  already
you don't believe it."

    "Whether I  believe  you  or  not  doesn't  make  a  damn  bit  of
difference. I really don't  care what your  reasons are, Catalyst,  so
long as you do what I ask of you."

    "I will, but on one condition."

    "Ah, now we come to it," Joram said, scowling. "What is it? That I
turn  myself  in?   Or  maybe  remain   buried  in  this   godforsaken
wilderness-"

    "That you take me with you," Saryon said in a low voice.

    "What?" Joram  stared  at  the  catalyst  in  astonishment.  Then,
nodding to himself, he  gave a short, ugly  laugh. "Of course, I  see.
Every Dead man needs his  own catalyst." Shrugging, he almost  smiled.
"By all  means, come  with me  to  Merilon, We'll  have a  jolly  time
together, as our friend Simkin would say. Now, are we ready to get  on
with this?"

    Moving carefully and silently to avoid waking Mosiah, Joram turned
his back upon the startled catalyst and walked across the small  room.
He knelt beside  his bed,  put his  hands beneath  the mattress,  and,
slowly and reverently, drew forth the Darksword.

    Saryon watched  him  in puzzled  silence.  He had  expected  rage,
refusal. He had  expected to have  to stand firm  on his position,  to
resist arguments, even threats. This casual, uncaring acceptance  was,
somehow, worse. Maybe the young man didn't understand...

    Joram was carefully wrapping the  sword in rags. Coming up  behind
him, Saryon put his hand on  the young man's shoulder. "I'm not  going
to turn you in. I  only want to help you.  You see, you can't go  back
either. Not to Merilon-"

    "Look, Catalyst," Joram said, standing up, angrily jerking himself
free of the man's touch, "I've  already said-I don't care what you  do
or where you go so long as you help me in this. Understood? Fine."  He
looked down at the sword he  held cradled in his hands. The  moonlight
reflecting white off the rags  made the skeletal-looking metal  object
lying within seem that much darker by stark contrast. The image of the
Dead baby, wrapped  in the  white cloth of  the Royal  House, came  to
Saryon's mind. Shutting his eyes, he turned away.

    Seeing the catalyst's reaction, Joram's lip curled. "If the sermon
is  ended,  Father"-the  word  was  uttered  with  such  venom  Saryon
flinched-"we must go. I want to get this over with."

    Thrusting the sword into a leather  belt he had fashioned and  now
wore about his waist-a crude imitation  of those he had seen  pictured
in the texts-Joram threw a long, dark cloak (provided by Simkin)  over
his shoulders. He walked the length  of the prison cell, looking  down
at himself critically. The  sword was hidden.  Nodding to himself,  he
turned to Saryon and gestured peremptorily.

    "Go on. I'm ready."

    Am I? Saryon asked himself in  agony. He wanted to say  something,
but he could not talk and, coughing, tried to clear his throat. It was
useless. He could never swallow fear. Joram's face darkened,  scowling
at this delay. Saryon could see the muscles stand out rigid and  stiff
in the young man's firm jawline, a nerve twitched in one eye, and  his
hands, hanging straight at his  sides, clench and unclench  nervously.
But in the eyes burned a light brighter than the moon's,  brighter-and
colder.

    No, there was nothing to say. Nothing at all.

    Reaching out, his own hand  trembling, Saryon gently and  silently
opened the door. Every nerve, every fiber, of his being warned him  to
turn around, to refuse, to stay within this house. But the momentum of
his past life was rising around him  like a great wave. Caught in  the
tide, he could  do nothing  but ride  the foaming  waters hurling  him
forward, even though he  could see clearly  the jagged stones  looming
dark before him.

    12

    King of Swords Blachloch placed his folded hands upon the desk  in
front of him. "And  so, Father, feeling  wretched over committing  one
immoral act, and terrified that you might be forced to commit another,
you saw as your only alternative the commission of a deed so  heinous,
so black, it was banned by your own Order centuries ago?"

    "I  have  admitted  that  I  was  not  thinking  clearly,"  Saryon
murmured, the warlock's  bald statement  of the  facts unnerving  him.
"I-I am a scholar... This type  of life frightens and... and  confuses
me."

    "But you are confused no longer," Blachloch said wryly.  "Appalled
and horrified, but not confused. You will surrender the Darksword  and
Joram to me."

    "The sword must be destroyed," Saryon interrupted. "Or I will  not
go through with this."

    "Of  course,"  Blachloch  replied  with  a  slight  shrug  of  his
shoulders, as though  this were nothing  more than a  cracked ale  mug
they were  discussing, not  a sword  that could  conceivably give  him
power to rule  the world.  What a  fool he  must take  me for,  Saryon
thought bitterly. Blachloch clasped his hands before him. "Now, as for
the boy..."

    "He must be turned over to  Bishop Vanya," Saryon said, his  voice
rasping.

    "So, Simkin  was right,"  Blachloch remarked.  "That is  the  real
reason you were sent to this coven."

    "Yes," Saryon swallowed.

    "I wish you would have confided in me," the warlock said, his  two
index fingers coming together  to form a small  sword, pointed at  the
catalyst. "Life would  have been  much simpler for  you, Father.  Your
Bishop Vanya must be an imbecile," he muttered, a tiny line  appearing
in his forehead, his eyes staring  into a shadowy corner, "to think  a
scholar like you could deal with a murderer like this Joram..."

    "You will  see that  he is  taken to  the Font?"  Saryon  pursued,
flushing. "I cannot do so myself for... for obvious reasons. I presume
your contacts in the Duuk-tsarith-"

    "Yes. That  can be  arranged,"  Blachloch cut  in. "You  say  'for
obvious reasons. ' I presume you mean that you dare not return to  the
fold. What of yourself in all this, Father?"

    "I should  surrender myself  to  Bishop Vanya,"  Saryon  answered,
knowing what was expected of him. He lowered his head, his gaze on his
shoes. "I have committed a grievous sin. I deserve my fate."

    "The Turning to Stone, Father. A terrible way to... live. I  know.
As I told you, I've  seen it done. That  would be your punishment  for
helping to create the Darksword, as of course you yourself know.  Such
a waste," Blachloch said, running his finger over his blond  mustache,
"such a waste."

    Saryon shuddered. Yes, that would be his punishment. Could he face
it? To live forever with the knowledge of what he had done? No, if  it
came to that, there were ways of ending things. Henbane, for example.

    "Still, you might be forgiven, considered something of a hero..."

    Saryon shook his head.

    "Ah, this  is your  second infraction.  I had  forgotten. So  your
options are immortality of a most  horrible sort or staying here  with
the coven  and  reconciling  yourself to  committing  further  immoral
acts." Blachloch's  fingers  raised  slightly,  pointing  at  Saryon's
heart. "There is, of course, another alternative."

    Glancing  up  quickly,  Saryon  saw  Blachloch's  meaning  plainly
expressed on the cold  face and in the  unblinking eyes. The  catalyst
swallowed again, a bitter taste filling his mouth. It was uncanny  the
way the man could see into his head, uncanny and frightening.

    "The... the last  is not  an alternative,"  Saryon said,  shifting
uncomfortably. "Suicide is an unpardonable sin."

    "Whereas assisting me to  rape and plunder  or assisting Joram  to
create a weapon that could destroy  the world is not," Blachloch  said
with a sneer. His hands unclasped, spreading out, palms down, upon the
desk. "I admire the neat and  tidy way you catalysts think. Still,  it
works out usefully for me, so why should I complain?"

    Sweating beneath his robes,  Saryon found it  safer not to  reply.
Matters were going well, almost too well. Probably, as Joram had said,
because he was not having to lie. Well, not that much. Suicide was  an
unpardonable sin only if one believed in a god.

    "Where is the young man?" Blachloch rose to his feet.

    Saryon, too, stood up, thankful for the flowing robes that covered
his trembling legs. "In... in the forge," he said faintly.

    No fire burned in the forge this night. A faint red glow glimmered
from the  banked coals,  but it  was the  white, cold  glimmer of  the
sinking  moon  that  touched  the  blade  of  the  sword,  it  surface
pockmarked with hammer  blows, its  edge sharp,  though irregular  and
uneven.

    The sword was  the first  object Saryon  saw as  he and  Blachloch
materialized within the moonlit darkness of the forge. The weapon  lay
upon the anvil, basking in the moonlight like a perverse snake.

    Blachloch saw it  too, Saryon knew.  Though he could  not see  the
warlock's face, hidden as it was by the shadows of his black hood,  he
could tell by the sharp intake  of breath that even the discipline  of
the Duuk-tsarith could not suppress. The clasped hands quivered, their
fingers twitching, longing to touch.  But the Enforcer was in  command
of himself.  Every sense  alert, his  mind reached  into the  shadows,
seeking his prey.

    Saryon  himself  looked  about  almost  casually  for  Joram.  The
catalyst had expected to  be paralyzed with fear;  his hands had  been
shaking so when he left Blachloch's  dwelling that he had barely  been
able to open a conduit to the  warlock. But now that he was here,  his
fear had left him, leaving a cold, clear feeling of emptiness inside.

    Standing in the forge, looking around  for what might be the  last
minutes of his life, Saryon felt the  world rush in to fill the  void.
It was as if he were living each second separately, moving from one to
another with  the  steady  regularity  of  a  heartbeat.  Each  second
absorbed his complete  attention; he literally  saw everything,  heard
everything, was aware  of everything  around him in  that one  second.
Then he moved on to the next. The oddest thing was that none of it had
any meaning for him.  He was detached, an  observer, looking on  while
his body performed its role in this deadly play. Blachloch could  have
cut off his  hands right now,  severed them at  the wrist, and  Saryon
would not have cried out, would not have felt a thing. He could almost
envision himself,  standing there  in  the moonlit  darkness,  staring
calmly at the dripping blood.

    So this is courage, he thought, watching as a hand, glowing  white
in the moonlight, reached  out from the  shadows and silently  grasped
the hilt of the sword.

    There was no sound and only  the barest hint of movement.  Indeed,
if Saryon had not been staring  straight at the sword, he would  never
have noticed; Joram had acted with  the skill and deftness of the  art
his mother had taught him as a child. But the Duuk-tsarith are trained
to hear night itself creep up behind them.

    Blachloch reacted with  such speed  that Saryon saw  only a  black
wind whirling through  the forge,  scattering sparks  from the  coals.
With a motion and a word, the warlock cast the spell that would  leave
his opponent powerless to  move or act or  even think, the spell  that
drained magic, drained Life.

    Except Joram had no Life.

    Saryon almost laughed, so tense was he, as he felt the magic spell
hit the  young  man  a  blow that  should  have  been  shattering.  It
fluttered down around  him like so  many rose petals.  The white  hand
continued to lift the sword. The metal did not gleam. It was a  streak
of darkness slashing through the  moonlight, as though Joram held  the
embodiment of night.

    Stepping into the light,  Joram lifted the  sword before him,  his
face tense and strained, his eyes darker than the metal. Saryon  could
sense the young  man's fear  and uncertainty; despite  all his  study,
Joram had  only  the vaguest  idea  of  the metal's  powers.  But  the
catalyst, every sense alive  and attuned for  the first time-he  might
have  been  newborn  in  this  instant-could  also  sense  Blachloch's
uncertainty, astonishment, growing fear.

    What did the Duuk-tsarith know of the darkstone? Probably not much
more than Joram. What thoughts  must be rushing through the  warlock's
mind. Was  the sword  responsible for  blocking his  Nullmagic  spell?
Would it block others?  Blachloch must make his  decision on his  next
move instantaneously, split-second.  For all he  knew, his life  might
well depend upon it.

    Coolly, calmly, the Duuk-tsarith chose his spell and cast it.  His
eyes lit with a green glow  and instantly a greenish liquid  condensed
from the air  onto Joram's skin,  where it began  to bubble and  hiss.
Green Venom, the spell was called. Recognizing it, Saryon winced,  his
stomach clenching. The pain was excruciating,  so he had heard, as  if
every nerve ending  were on fire.  Any magus strong  enough to  shield
himself against the Nullmagic must fall victim to the venom's  magical
paralysis. He would not be able to protect against both.

    And it apparently affected the Dead as well as the Living. Joram's
face twisted in agony. He gasped, his body beginning to double over as
the liquid spread and the fiery pain burned through his flesh. But  it
was a spell whose casting drained a magus rapidly.

    "Grant me Life, Catalyst!" Blachloch demanded, his eyes glowing  a
more brilliant green as they stared at the young man.

    This is  the time,  Saryon knew.  The  time I  must decide.  I  am
Joram's only chance. Without me, he  must fall. He cannot control  the
sword, if the darkstone is even working. The catalyst glanced  swiftly
at the weapon and a shiver of exultation swept over him. Joram's  body
glowed green,  the  young  man  screamed  in  terrible  pain.  He  was
literally crumbling to the floor as the venom surged through his body.
But his hands still gripped the  sword, the hands themselves were  not
coated with the deadly liquid, and, even as Saryon watched, the  venom
began to disappear from Joram's arms and upper body-the Darksword  was
absorbing the magic.

    It was doing  so too slowly,  however, Joram would  be worse  than
dead within seconds,  his body  a convulsing, writhing  blob upon  the
sand-covered door of the forge.

    Saryon began to repeat the ancient words, the words he had learned
seventeen years  ago when  he  became a  Deacon,  words he  had  never
spoken, never expected to speak...  Words each catalyst prays he  will
never be forced to speak...

    He began to suck out Blachloch's Life.

    A highly dangerous  maneuver, it  is generally  practiced only  in
times of  war when  a  catalyst will  attempt  to weaken  an  opponent
through this means. Instead of closing  off a conduit, which cuts  the
supply of Life given to a magus, the catalyst leaves the conduit  open
and simply reverses  the flow. The  danger lies in  the fact that  the
wizard will instantly  feel the Life  beginning to seep  from him  and
can, unless distracted, turn upon the catalyst and reduce him to dust.

    Saryon knew well the  danger he was in  and he didn't flinch  when
Blachloch's cry of outrage split the darkness, the green-glowing  eyes
moved to turn their venomous pain upon him. His courage held, even  as
he saw his fingertips began to turn green and felt the first bursts of
pain dance up his arms.

    "Joram!" he shouted. "Help me!"

    The  young  man  was  on  his  knees,  sobbing.  With  Blachloch's
attention withdrawn and the sword  absorbing the magic, the venom  was
vanishing from his flesh, though still slowly. At Saryon's cry,  Joram
lifted his head. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rise. But he was  too
weak to manage on his own and there was nothing near him he could  use
to lean upon. Finally, plunging the  point of the sword into the  dirt
floor of the forge, he gripped  the handle and dragged himself to  his
feet.

    "Joram!" The venom ate into Saryon's body, and the catalyst cursed
himself. With all  his logic,  he should  have foreseen  this! He  was
absorbing Life from  the warlock, but  there was nothing  he could  do
with it! In battle, he would have  had a wizard as his ally. He  could
grant this Life to his partner, who  could then use it to enhance  his
own strength and fight off the  enemy. But the catalyst could give  no
Life to Joram, he could give him no aid.

    Then Saryon saw the sword.

    It stood in the  ground, its arms spread  like a man pleading  for
help. Its  black  metal reflected  no  light.  It was  a  creation  of
darkness, it was darkness. Like a man pleading for help.

    A feeling of shock and horror hit Saryon, numbing the growing pain
spreading slowly  over  his  body, slowly  because-even  still-he  was
draining the  Life  from  the  warlock  and  he  could  feel  the  man
weakening.

    I can not give Life to Joram, but I can give it to the sword.

    Closing his  eyes, Saryon  blocked  out the  sight of  the  black,
hideous parody of a living being  that seemed to be opening its  rigid
arms to clasp him  in its embrace. I  can surrender. My torment  would
end.

    Obedire est vivere...

    He saw before  him the flames  of the burning  village, the  young
Deacon falling dead upon the ground, Simkin dealing a hand from a deck
of faceless, colorless cards.

    Vivere est obedire...

    Opening his eyes,  Saryon watched  Joram draw the  blade from  the
ground and raise  it above  his head. But  the young  man appeared  in
Saryon's mind only as a shadow in  the moonlight. All he truly saw  or
could focus on was the sword.  Stretching out his hand toward it,  the
pain making his fingers twitch involuntarily, Saryon opened a  conduit
to the cold, lifeless metal.

    The magic surged through  him like a blast  of wind, its force  so
strong that he stumbled backward. The pain ceased abruptly, the liquid
on his skin  vanished. The  sword glowed a  brilliant white-blue  and,
with an inarticulate cry,  Blachloch fell to  the floor, the  combined
power of the sword and the  catalyst sucking the magic from his  body,
leaving him nothing more than the empty shell of a human.

    The sword fell to the  ground. Unprepared for the tremendous  jolt
of power that jarred his very being, Joram had dropped the weapon  and
now stood staring at it in amazement  as it lay on the floor,  ringing
and humming with an eerie, almost human screech of pleasure.  Turning,
he looked from the  sword to the helpless  warlock. Snarling in  rage,
Blachloch fought on, trying to regain the  use of his limbs. It was  a
feeble attempt. Weakened by the full use of his magical power and  now
completely bereft of  Life itself,  the warlock flopped  about in  the
dirt like a landed fish.

    Appalled and sickened  at the sight,  Saryon turned away.  Leaning
against a workbench, he realized, slowly, that it was all over.

    "I will  open a  Corridor,"  he said,  without looking  around  at
Joram. He couldn't face the sight of the warlock lying helpless on the
floor, deprived of all his dignity as a human being. It was bad enough
hearing his incoherent sounds and  pitiful thrashings. "I have  enough
of his Life force left within me to  do so. I will place him inside  a
Corridor, then close it again before the Enforcers figure out what has
happened. I don't think  it likely anyone would  come back here.  They
seem intent on avoiding this place and, once they've got Blachloch,  I
believe they'll let the Technologists  live in peace. Still, it  would
be best for you if you left, just in case-"

    A scream interrupted him, a scream of fury and terror. Rising to a
shrill shriek of excruciating  pain, the scream  became a wail,  dying
horribly in a dreadful, choking gurgle.

    His soul riven by the awful sound, Saryon turned around.

    Blachloch lay dead, his eyes  staring straight up into the  night,
his mouth open  in the  scream that  echoed still  in Saryon's  brain.
Joram stood above the warlock, his face stark white in the  moonlight,
his eyes hollows of darkness. In his hands, he held the Darksword, its
blade protruding from the warlock's chest.  With a jerk, he pulled  it
free and Saryon saw blood glisten black upon the Darksword.

    Saryon could not speak. The man's death cry shrieked in his  ears.
He could  only stare  at Joram,  trying to  stifle the  sound of  that
dreadful scream enough to be able to think.

    "Why?" the catalyst whispered finally.

    Joram looked over at him, and  Saryon saw the half-smile glint  in
the dark eyes.

    "He was going  to attack  you, Catalyst," the  young man  answered
coolly. "I stopped him."

    An image of the helpless,  flopping body came vividly to  Saryon's
mind. A sudden rush of burning liquid rose to his throat. Gagging,  he
turned quickly from  the ghastly  sight upon  the floor  at his  feet.
"You're lying! That's not possible!" he said through clenched teeth.

    "Come now, Catalyst," Joram  said sardonically. Stepping over  the
body, he picked up the rag that  lay upon the floor and began to  wipe
the blood from the blade. "It's ended.  You don't need to keep up  the
game."

    Had Saryon heard right? He seemed to hear nothing but that shriek.
"Game?" he managed to ask. "What game? I don't understand..."

    "Almin's blood! Who do you take me for? Mosiah!" Joram laughed but
it came  but a  snarl-bitter and  ugly.  "As if  I'd tumble  for  that
sanctimonious blabbing." His voice rose to a high, whining mockery  of
Saryon's. " 'I'll open a Corridor, You get away... ' Ha!" Tossing  the
blood-stained rag upon the floor, Joram carefully laid the sword  down
beside it, "Did you think  I'd fall for that?  I knew your plan.  Once
you had that Corridor open-"

    "No! You're wrong!"

    Saryon's impassioned cry caught  Joram by surprise. Glancing  over
his shoulder, he looked intently  into the catalyst's face. "Well,  of
all the-I believe you meant it," he said slowly, staring at Saryon  in
wonder.

    The catalyst could not answer. Sinking down upon the workbench, he
closed his eyes  and, shivering,  hunched deeper into  his robes.  The
dead warlock was having his revenge, it seemed. His scream had drained
the life from Saryon  as effectively as the  catalyst had drained  the
magic from the magus. Sick, cold, filled with hatred and revulsion for
himself as well as for  the young man, if  Saryon had believed in  the
Almin enough to ask him  for one final favor,  it would have been  for
the blessed oblivion of death.

    He heard Joram's footsteps moving  across the sand floor and  felt
the presence of the young man behind him.

    "You meant it," Joram repeated.

    "Yes," Saryon said tiredly, "I meant it."

    "You saved my life," Joram continued, speaking in low tones,  "You
risked your own to do it, I know. I saw..."

    Saryon felt a touch on  his shoulder. Startled, he glanced  around
to see Joram's hand resting there hesitantly, awkwardly. He could  see
the face in the  waning moonlight, dark eyes  shadowed by a tangle  of
thick, black hair.  In the eyes,  for the briefest  second, there  was
longing, hunger. The catalyst knew the  truth now, as he had known  it
all along.

    Years ago, Saryon's mind whispered to him, I held this child in my
arms!

    Reaching up, he started to grasp Joram's hand with his own. But as
soon as he did, the hand on his shoulder jerked away.

    "Why?" Joram demanded. "What do you want of me?"

    Saryon stared at the young man for a moment, then a slight,  tired
smile twisted his lips. "I don't want anything of you, Joram."

    "Then, what was your  reason, Catalyst? And don't  give me any  of
that holy honey you use to keep people like Mosiah sweet. I know  you.
There has to be a motive."

    "I've told you," Saryon said softly, his gaze going to the  weapon
that lay on  the floor like  another corpse, "I  helped bring  this...
weapon of darkness into the world. It is my responsibility, partly  my
responsibility," he amended as Joram  started to speak. Saryon's  gaze
went from  the sword  to the  warlock. "I  have failed.  It has  drawn
blood, it has severed a life-"

    "I drew the  blood! I severed  the life!" Joram  cried, coming  to
stand before the catalyst. "The Darksword was just a tool in my hands.
Quit talking about the damn thing as if it were more alive than I am!"

    Saryon did not reply. Staggering with fatigue, he walked haltingly
across the sand-strewn  floor of the  forge and came  to kneel  beside
Blachloch's body.  Gritting his  teeth to  quell a  wave of  sickness,
keeping his  gaze averted  from the  ghastly wound  in the  chest,  he
stretched out his hand and closed the eyes that were staring upward in
horrified astonishment.  He did  his  best to  shut the  gaping  jaws,
composing the face in some semblance of peace. Lifting the cold hands,
he started to  fold them across  the breast, as  was traditional,  but
found he could  not as  a wave of  nausea overcame  him. Letting  them
drop, he  turned  away  hurriedly,  slumping  against  the  workbench,
shivering in a chill sweat.

    "I'll take the body into the woods," Joram said.

    Hearing a rustling sound, Saryon glanced back to see the young man
tug the warlock's hood over his face and cover the body with the man's
cloak. "When they find him, they'll figure centaurs got him."

    A Duuk-tsarith  Saryon thought,  but he  didn't say  anything.  He
didn't  care   anymore,   anyway.  Looking   wistfully   outside,   he
half-expected to see the dawn burning  its way along the horizon.  But
the moon had just set. It was  only a little past the deepest flow  of
night's tide.  He wanted  his bed.  Though it  was cold  and hard,  he
wanted to lie down and cast his  own cloak over his head and  maybe...
just maybe... the  sleep that had  eluded him for  nights would  steal
upon him and, for a little while, he could forget.

    "Listen to me, Catalyst!" Joram's voice was harsh. "The only other
person who knows about the Darksword besides you and me is dead-"

    "So that was why you killed him."

    Joram ignored him. "It  must stay that way.  While I'm moving  the
body, you take the sword and go back to the prison."

    "Blachloch's guards  are  all  over town,  searching  for  you..."
Saryon protested, remembering  the hue  and cry that  had been  raised
when he reported Joram missing. "How will you-"

    "How do you think I got in here? There's a way out, in back of the
forge," Joram said impatiently. "The smithy's used it for over a  year
with his secret stash of weapons."

    "Weapons?" Saryon asked, uncomprehending.

    "Yes, Catalyst. Blachloch's days were numbered. The  Technologists
were bound to  rebel. We  have only hastened  what was  going to  come
sooner or later. But never mind that  now! Take the sword and go  back
to the  prison. No  one will  bother  you. After  all, you  were  with
Blachloch. If they  do stop  you, tell  them the  warlock followed  my
trail into the wilderness. He went  in alone after me. That's all  you
know."

    "Yes." Saryon murmured.

    Joram stared at him, scowling. "Did you even hear a word I said?"

    "I hear!" Saryon said sternly. "And I'll do what you say. I  don't
want word of this terrible  weapon to get out  any more than you  do."
Rising to his feet, he looked directly into the young man's face. "You
must destroy it. If you don't, I will."

    The two stood, confronting each other in the darkness that was lit
now only by  the dimly glowing  coals. The fire  glimmered in  Joram's
eyes and on the lips that spread in a dark, red-tinged smile. "What if
someone offered you the  Magic, Catalyst?" he  asked softly: "What  if
someone said to  you, 'Here, take  this power. You  no longer have  to
walk the ground  like an  animal. You  can fly.  You can  call up  the
winds. You can banish the sun and bring down the stars, if you desire.
' What would you do? Wouldn't you take it?"

    Wouldn't I? Saryon thought, a  sudden memory of his father  coming
to him. He saw a little boy kicking off the hated shoes, drifting over
the land in the arms of the wizard.

    "This is my magic," said Joram, his gaze going to the sword  lying
on the floor. "Tomorrow  I start for Merilon.  You, too, Catalyst,  if
you insist on coming. Once  I am there, in  Merilon, in the city  that
ended my parents'  lives and robbed  me of my  birthright, this  sword
will bring  down the  stars and  put them  in my  grasp. No,  I  won't
destroy it." He paused. "And neither will you."

    "Why not?" asked Saryon.

    "Because you  helped  create  it,"  Joram  said,  the  forge  fire
lighting his  face. "Because  you  helped bring  it into  this  world.
Because you gave it Life."

    "I-" Saryon began, but he could  not finish. He was too scared  to
search inside himself for the truth.

    Joram nodded,  satisfied. Turning,  he walked  over to  the  body,
issuing instructions as  he went. "Wrap  the sword in  those rags.  If
anyone stops you, tell them you  are carrying a child. A dead  child."
Glancing over at the  pale, shaken catalyst,  he smiled. "Your  child,
Saryon," he said. "Yours and mine."

    Bending down,  Joram picked  up the  body of  the warlock  in  his
strong arms. Heaving the corpse over his shoulder, he turned and  made
his way through  the clutter  of tools and  stacks of  wood and  coal,
heading toward the back  of the cavern. The  body bounced horribly  as
the young man walked, the hands dangling limply down behind,  brushing
against objects as though trying in vain to hold onto the world  their
spirit had left. Joram finally disappeared into the blackness  beyond,
leaving Saryon alone in the forge, staring at a splotch of darkness on
the floor.

    For long moments he stood there,  unable to move. Then he had  the
strangest feeling-as though  he were  slowly rising up  off the  floor
and, drifting backward, could look down and see himself still standing
there. Up and up he floated, watching his body slowly walk over to the
sword. Spiraling around, going ever upward, moving further and further
away, he saw himself wrap  the sword in rags.  He saw himself lift  it
carefully in his arms. Cradling the sword to his bosom, he saw himself
walk out of the forge.

    The heavy oaken door shut upon the catalyst's shuffling tread  and
the whisper of his robes. Silence flowed back into the forge like  the
shadows of night, seeming  to quench even the  glowing coals with  its
heaviness. It was shattered suddenly by  a clattering bang. A pair  of
huge tongs slipped  from the  nail upon  which they  were hanging  and
landed in a water bucket with a splash.

    "Sink me," muttered the tongs. "Didn't see that damn thing in  the
dark. And it would be full."

    The sound of a bucket  overturning, followed by water running  out
onto the floor,  was accompanied by  a wide and  varied assortment  of
oaths until Simkin stumbled out of the wreckage to stand in the middle
of the forge, dressed in his usual, gaudy, if somewhat damp, finery.

    "I say," remarked the young man,  wiping the water from his  beard
and glancing about  him, "what  an extraordinary  business. I  haven't
been so entertained since the old  Earl of Mumsburg flew a  rebellious
serf over his castle. Tied a rope around his ankle and hung him out in
a stiff breeze. 'Chap tried to rise  above his station, ' the old  boy
said to me as  we watched the  peasant flapping in  the wind. 'Now  he
knows what it's like. ' "

    Shaking his head, Simkin  walked casually over  to stand near  the
dark splotch of still-wet blood that  had soaked into the sand on  the
floor of the forge. He gestured, and a bit of orange silk materialized
at his command.  Drifting gently  down to  the floor,  it covered  the
splotch. With a snap  of his fingers, Simkin  caused the silk and  the
blood spot to vanish.

    " 'Pon my  honor," he murmured  with a languid  smile, "we  should
have a jolly time in Merilon."

    Then Simkin, too, was gone, drifting away into the air like a wisp
of smoke.

    The Last Card  There was no  dinner party at  Bishop Vanya's  this
night.

    "His Holiness is indisposed," was  the message the Ariels  carried
to  those  who   had  been  invited.   This  included  the   Emperor's
brother-in-law, whose number of invitations  to dine at the Font  were
increasing proportionately with  the declining health  of his  sister.
Everyone had  been most  gracious and  extremely concerned  about  the
Bishop's welfare.  The  Emperor  had even  offered  his  own  personal
Theldara to the Bishop, but this was respectfully refused.

    Vanya dined alone, and so preoccupied was the Bishop that he might
have been eating sausages  along with his  Field Catalysts instead  of
the delicacies of peacock's tongue  and lizard's tail which he  barely
tasted and never noticed were underdone.

    Having finished and  sent away the  tray, he sipped  a brandy  and
composed himself to wait until the tiny moon in the timeglass upon his
desk had risen to its zenith.  The waiting was difficult, but  Vanya's
mind was so occupied that he found the time sliding past more  rapidly
than he had expected. The pudgy fingers crawled ceaselessly along  the
arms of the chair, touching this strand of mental web and that, seeing
if any needed  strengthening or repaired,  throwing out new  filaments
where necessary.

    The Empress-a fly that would soon be dead.

    Her brother-heir to throne. A  different type of fly, he  demanded
special consideration.

    The Emperor-his sanity at the best of times precarious, the  death
of his beloved wife and the loss  of his position might well topple  a
mind weak to begin with.

    Sharakan-the  other  empires  in  Thimhallan  were  watching  this
rebellious state  with too  much  interest. It  must be  crushed,  the
people taught a lesson. And with them, the Sorcerers of the Ninth  Art
wiped out completely. That was shaping up nicely... or had been.

    Vanya fidgeted uncomfortably  and glanced at  the time-glass.  The
tiny moon was just now appearing  over the horizon. With a growl,  the
Bishop poured himself  another The boy.  Damn the boy.  And damn  that
blasted catalyst, too. Darkstone,  Vanya closed his eyes,  shuddering.
He  was  in  peril,  deadly  peril.  If  anyone  ever  discovered  the
incredible blunder he had made...

    Vanya saw the greedy eyes watching him, waiting for his  downfall.
The  eyes  of  the  Lord   Cardinal  of  Merilon,  who  had-so   rumor
told-already drawn up plans for redecorating the Bishop's chambers  in
the Font. The  eyes of his  own Cardinal, a  slow-thinking man, to  be
sure, but one who had risen through the ranks by plodding along slowly
and surely, trampling over anything or anyone who got in his way.  And
there were others. Watching, waiting, hungry...

    If they got so much  as a sniff of his  failure, they'd be on  him
like griffins, rending his flesh with their talons.

    But no!  Vanya clenched  the pudgy  hand, then  forced himself  to
relax. All was well.  He had planned for  every contingency, even  the
unlikely ones.

    With this thought in mind and  noticing that the moon was  finally
nearing the top of  the timeglass, the Bishop  heaved his bulk out  of
the chair and made his way, walking  at a slow, measured pace, to  the
Chamber of Discretion.

    The darkness was empty and silent. No sign of mental  disturbance.
Perhaps that was a good sign, Vanya told himself as he sat down in the
center of the round  room. But a tremor  of fear shivered through  the
web as he sent forth his summons to his minion.

    He waited, spider fingers twitching.

    The darkness was still, cold, unspeaking.

    Vanya called again, the fingers curling in upon themselves.

    I may or may not respond, the voice had told him, Yes, that  would
be like him, the arrogant- Vanya swore, his hands gripping the  chair,
sweat pouring down his head. He had to know! It was too important!  He
would- Yes...

    The hands relaxed. Vanya considered, turning the idea over in  his
mind. He had planned  for every contingency,  even the unlikely  ones.
And this one he had planned for without even knowing it. Such are  the
ways of genius.

    Sitting back in  the chair,  Bishop Vanya's  mind touched  another
strand on the  web, sending  an urgent summons  to one  who would,  he
knew, be little prepared to receive it.

    REVISION HISTORY  v1.1  -proofread -conversion  to  standard  HTML
format  -added  images  -added   chapter  links,  chapter   navigation
-compliant with EDG  v1.5 v2.0  -actual proof-read  and correction  of
several minor errors  without original scan  images to check  against.
Released in rtf format.